In the Gloaming
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: When they discover that a gray has traveled back in time to ensure Skynet's creation, Sarah and Derek keep John and Cameron in the dark. But with the stakes so high, everyone's in danger. Jameron.
1. Beyond Here Lies Nothin' Part 1

**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters from this wonderful show.

**Warnings:** This story will include profane language and a few scenes of violence.

**A/N:** Salutations. I came to this show very late in the game (long after its cancellation, in fact). But I fell in love with it very quickly! How sad I was to see it end on an amazing cliffhanger, hinting at a third season filled with much excitement and many possibilities. Sigh...

This story is set at an indeterminate point in the middle of Season 2, and takes its own path from there. There will be somewhere in the range of 7-10 chapters. And there will be a good dose of Jameron to be found here, as I have quite a fondness for that relationship.

I'll also be including some of the structural elements I liked from the show - the opening monologue, music montages, etc.

Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the first chapter. Reviews are very, very much appreciated. Feedback is fuel for fic writers. :)

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><p><strong>In the Gloaming<strong>

* * *

><p>Beyond Here Lies Nothin' (Part 1)<p>

* * *

><p><em>In the Book of Revelation, it's said that when the Beast rules the earth, no one may buy or sell goods who does not possess his mark. It's the final test. A last chance to show devotion for those who missed the Rapture. Will you die for the Lord, or live for the Beast?<em>

"I still think we should've taken the metal."

Sarah veered off the gravel road into an abandoned parking lot, scanning its depth for some unformed danger. But her eyes found night and little else. The only source of light was a large, flickering bulb hanging down over the entrance to the warehouse.

"You don't trust her anymore than I do," she said.

Derek eyed the entrance warily. "No, but she's good for taking bullets if we walk into something."

"If we'd brought her, we would've had to bring John."

Sarah killed the engine, missing his glower as she opened her door. There was a naivety in her, and nothing moved it.

"The kid won't grow up to lead anybody if you keep coddling him," Derek said.

They met around the front of the car, each pulling a Glock from the back of their pants. Sarah wore the mask of motherly contempt.

"I suppose you want me to bring him to midnight meetings in abandoned warehouses?"

"He can handle himself."

"And I let him, if I think there's a good reason."

"Judgment Day's two years away and you're giving the messiah a fucking bedtime."

That was hyperbole, of course. John came and went basically as he pleased; Sarah couldn't stop him if she wanted to. But she could protect him from things like this. She could limit his peril. What good was experience if it put him in the ground?

Sarah's mouth set in a firm line. "Your Judgment Day."

"What?"

"Your Judgment Day's two years away," she said. "Mine hasn't happened yet."

Derek's eyes softened. "I know." He pulled the slide back on his gun. "Let's make sure it never does, right?"

When Sarah said nothing, he started toward the building in a soldier's stance. Sarah followed, keeping pace with her lover's kin. She thought, not for the first time, of the ways Derek and Kyle were alike and different. And she took no comfort in it.

Derek approached the entrance, peering through a broken window, but glimpsing nothing. There was a thick film of dust lining the edge of the glass, and the surface of the metal door . The dim bulb above them gave a low whine, casting light on just a sliver of Derek's face.

He glanced at Sarah. When she nodded in return, they slipped through the doorway to the inside.

Fifty feet from the entrance, James Ellison sat behind an old wooden table, waiting patiently. His hands were folded neatly in front of him.

Derek and Sarah moved cautiously, eyes darting past chains and old palettes to scrutinize the dark. As they approached Ellison, finally satisfied it was safe, they lowered their weapons.

The seated man was placid. "Hello, Sarah."

"Agent Ellison."

"So, is there a reason we're meeting in a condemned building at 1 am, or is this just for effect?" Derek asked.

Ellison met his piercing eyes. "I didn't want to take any chances with the information I have," he said, flipping open a manila folder and sliding it across the table.

Sarah looked down at an aerial photograph of a sprawling estate. It was a stunning spread: a modern Mediterranean mansion with a massive guest house, flanked by a basketball court and a pool to the left and right, and situated on six acres of lush green land.

"What am I looking at?" she asked.

"A compound twenty miles east of Los Angeles. It's a converted mansion estate."

"Converted to what?"

"A research facility for a tech company called the Janus Group," Ellison said.

Derek studied the photo. "Why there? Not a very cheap set-up for them."

"The place was built in the 70s. You can't see it in the picture, but directly under the main house, there's a massive fall-out shelter. Janus has turned it into a lab."

"And what is it they're working on?" Sarah asked.

Ellison peered up at them over his steepled hands. His eyes were little black slits.

"They're building Skynet."

* * *

><p><strong>Terminator:<strong>

**The Sarah Connor Chronicles**

* * *

><p>It wasn't the first time she'd seen him have a nightmare.<p>

She watched him sleep a lot, in fact, when she wasn't at the library. He'd become more and more restless lately. He'd yet to catch her keeping vigil, but it was only a matter of time.

Watching over him was a compulsion, one she'd been working to understand. She was built to process myriad thoughts simultaneously, but thinking of John sealed her off from other tangents. It was an interesting, and often agreeable, feeling to focus on one subject. But it was vexing too.

She found herself preoccupied with fear that he'd be harmed – both physically and by the demons he grappled with in slumber. She felt a gnawing frustration that she couldn't pull his brain out and clean it (like he would her chip) to correct the malfunction.

It was clear this concern wasn't something inherited; this wasn't about the mission. A few weeks back, having systematically eliminated all other explanations, she realized she cared for him in a decidedly human way. And it made sense to her. She was built to learn and adapt, and to spend so long in the presence of one who felt as deeply for people as John did was bound to affect her programming.

She'd developed likes and dislikes. The former were almost exclusively related to John. The latter were spread out over many people and things, but chief among them were Sarah's and Derek's coldness and Riley's relentless pursuit of the man who lay before her.

She focused on the little things that made her feel warm.

When John had a headache, he wore a tiny frown and his forehead would crease. Sometimes she'd convince him to take aspirin or lay down. She felt at peace in those moments.

When she said something that surprised or amused him, there'd be a slight smirk or, if he was _quite_ taken by it, a soft chuckle. She enjoyed his smirk and his laugh, both on their own merits and because they seemed to show he valued her.

Cameron had no frame of reference for amorous feelings, but based on these observations and on her need for closeness, she could only arrive at one conclusion.

Her reverie was broken when he began thrashing in his sheets.

John's hands were tangled and they wouldn't come loose. It reminded her of a dog she'd seen caught up in a plastic bag. She hadn't helped the dog, but she moved to help John.

He moaned and shuddered, and he whispered Cameron's name. She stilled at this. He didn't usually talk in his sleep. Was she hurting him in the dream? Was something happening _to_ her?

Cameron tried to decide whether to wake him. She'd been studying etiquette on this topic, and there were differing opinions. Some doctors and laymen said it was dangerous, that it disrupts the mind's natural process and can cause confusion in the dreamer. Others thought it was only responsible to end the dreamer's suffering. The latter approach was reserved for a loved one usually. Was she a loved one?

"Leave her alone," he murmured in a broken voice.

She slid from her chair to the edge of his bed, gripping his arm with one hand and laying the other on his face.

"John, wake up."

He continued thrashing, forehead creased in the middle. She could feel him trembling, and saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes. She shook him slightly, threading a hand through his hair.

"John," she said louder, "you need to wake up."

John's eyes snapped open, and he recoiled at the intrusion, smacking his head against the headboard. He growled at the sensation, cupping his skull. He blinked furiously and sucked in a ragged breath.

"Are you okay?" she asked tonelessly.

John blinked again, reality setting in, and nodded. Cameron reminded herself that humans lie to spare the feelings of those close to them, or to prevent embarrassment.

"I don't think you're okay," she said.

John scowled. "What the hell are you doing in here anyway?"

"I've observed a negative trend in your sleep patterns."

He snorted. "Is that right?"

"Yes. Your REM sleep has caused you great distress. You seem to dream about disturbing subjects on a nightly basis. I suspect that's why there are nights when you don't even try to sleep."

"You know, if you were anybody else, I'd probably file for a restraining order."

Cameron frowned. "That would not be conducive to my protecting you."

John smirked, scrubbing his face with a calloused hand. The fatigue was like its own fluid, mixing with all his blood. He flinched when she his touched his knee, and she pulled away quickly. He glanced up, but her face was blank.

"Sorry," he said, sighing. "I'm just a little jumpy."

"Would you like to talk about your dream? Leading psychologists say it can relieve discomfort."

"Who said I'm feeling discomfort?"

"I did."

John laughed softly. She could be so literal.

"It's nothing," he assured her. "Just random neurons shooting off in my brain. I'll be fine."

"Chinese novelist Gao Xingjian says that dreams are more real than reality."

John's eyes darkened. "Here's hoping he's wrong."

Cameron tilted her head. He was being stubborn. She thought perhaps she was being too dry. John might perceive this as an intellectual exercise, instead of a chance to unburden himself.

"I don't want to intrude on your thoughts," she said gently. "But you don't have to go through things alone if you don't want to. I'd like to listen to you and help you address whatever you're experiencing. I don't like it when you're in pain."

John tilted his own head now. A small smile formed.

"Did you just say you don't _like_ it when I'm in pain?"

"Yes."

"As in, independent of your mission parameters, you have a personal problem with me experiencing pain?"

Cameron nodded, staring into his eyes. A human might have looked away, but she didn't bother. If eyes were the window to the soul, the life in hers gave John pause in his assumption that she didn't have one.

"I find it difficult to watch," she said. "Especially your _mental _anguish, because there's nothing I can do to affect it."

John couldn't deny the excitement he felt. Thoughts and feelings he'd cast off some time ago were drawn again to her gravity.

"You do more than you think."

Cameron looked confused.

He smiled and said, "What I mean is, sometimes you just being you can make me feel a little better. Talking to you can distract me from a problem."

"Oh." She returned his smile. "Thank you for explaining."

He leaned back again, closing his eyes and draping an arm across his forehead. He sighed tiredly.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"No," she said. "I don't mind."

"Do you really believe we can stop Judgment Day, or are you just humoring me?"

"I believe it will be very difficult. But I also believe in you."

A calm came over John. A warmth. For too long, he'd operated on inference, instead of just talking to her.

"You know, for a machine, you seem to have a lot of feelings and beliefs," he said.

"Would that bother you?"

"I think I'd be glad, actually."

John swung his legs over the side of the bed, so that their thighs were touching. He seemed shy about the contact. That was another thing she liked about him. Most human males wore their appreciation freely.

"So… do you? Have feelings?"

"It's difficult to measure my processor's reactions against the ones in your brain. But to the extent that I understand the human mind to make a comparison, I think I do. Yes."

"What kind of feelings do you have?"

"Anger."

"About what?"

"About you. About you not listening to me when I'm trying to keep you safe."

John was charitably non-reactive. "What else makes you angry?"

"Sarah Connor's and Derek Reese's conclusions about me."

"What are their conclusions?"

"That I'm just metal," she said quietly. "That I can't be trusted. I know they'd kill me if it wasn't for you."

John's heart constricted. Without thinking, he put his hand on her thigh, and vehemently declared, "You know I'll never let that happen, right? I'll never let them hurt you."

Cameron smiled again. It was true what Sarah said: John had a strength about him.

"I know you won't," she assured him.

But her smile faded a moment later. Her new look was one of confusion, he thought, or of embarrassment. He tried to appear encouraging.

"What is it?"

"I feel jealousy too."

John was suddenly conscious of where his hand was and removed it.

"What are…" He blinked. "What are you jealous of?"

"Riley."

His breath caught in his throat.

"Why are – ?" His mind and heart rushed toward something. "When you – it was all because… "

"She's a security risk," Cameron insisted. "But… she's also a risk to your happiness."

"Yeah?"

"She's not right for you."

Curiosity had calmed his nerves. "How do you know?"

"Because you give. You give to everyone. And you have so much to worry about. You should be with someone who tries to keep you from worrying."

John smirked. "'It's nice to have a little help?'"

"Yes."

"Doesn't explain why you're jealous, though."

"I'm jealous because she divides your attention," Cameron said softly, turning her eyes away. She wondered if it was prudent to be sharing this, but it was beyond her not to. "I'm jealous she doesn't have to ask you questions; she already understands. She knows how to act to make you like her. I've seen you kiss her. And it angers me because my preference would be for you to – "

John cupped her face and pressed his lips against hers. The sensation was what he'd imagined, her bottom lip soft in his mouth. But she didn't respond. She just sat stiffly until terror gripped him.

He began to pull back, his face reddening. "I'm – God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – "

Cameron took his face in her hands and greedily reciprocated. The second kiss was as gentle as the first, but she lacked John's hesitation. All of her feelings – the good ones and the bad ones – seemed to spill out of her mouth, so that there were no more secrets.

John grunted at her possessiveness. He liked how it felt knowing she thought he was _hers_. He responded vigorously, one hand on her hip, the other in her hair.

Cameron wondered if humans had the same difficulty performing mental functions in the face of such stimulus. The sensation consumed her. And as John finally pulled back, his lips slowly gliding away, it took discipline to let him.

His hand slid down to her neck and he pressed their foreheads together. She was confused for a moment, before realizing the meaning of the gesture and smiling.

"I, uh…" He laughed nervously. "Well then."

"Did you like that?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes, very much."

He leaned back so he could look in her eyes, pushing her hair back and caressing her cheek.

A flicker of paranoia passed through him. Was it possible that he'd misjudged her sincerity; could this be a ruse to keep him away from Riley? Terminators weren't above seduction.

He stared hard at her irises. No, he thought. It wasn't possible. Everything he'd hoped was true had finally been validated. She cared for him in the way he wanted.

As the adrenaline from that revelation, and from their kiss, began to fade, his throbbing head announced itself. These days, it _always_ throbbed. It was like a damn jackhammer in his skull.

Cameron combed a hand through his hair, scrutinizing him, and said, "You're very tired, aren't you, John?"

He sighed, closing his eyes, enjoying the feeling of her nails on his scalp. "Yes."

"I've been reading about various remedies for sleeplessness. There are medications you could try, as well as acupuncture or therapeutic massage. I could attempt the latter two if you want."

"Thanks. I appreciate it, but…" He shook his head. "Part of me doesn't wanna sleep anyway."

"You have nightmares."

"Yeah…"

"What was tonight's about?"

John looked away. She was worried he would seal himself off again, so she took his hand in hers. When she began rubbing circles with her thumb, he finally relaxed.

"I heard you say my name," she mentioned gently.

"Yeah."

"Was I hurting you?"

"What?" He shook his head quickly. "No. Never that. I dream people are hurting _you_. It's usually my fault, and I can't do anything to stop it."

"Leading experts say dreams are a manifestation of fears and wants. Do you fear my harm when you're awake?"

"All the time."

"Because you care very much about me."

"Yeah."

Cameron tilted her head. "Why?"

"Why do I care about you?"

"Yes. What qualities do I possess that lead you to care about me?"

John smirked. It was human of her to desire compliments. Or maybe she was truly curious. Either way, he was to happy oblige her.

"I care about you because you're nice to me. You care about Mom and Derek, even though they couldn't care less for you. You're always watching to see how I'm doing – if I'm hungry or my head hurts or I'm tired." He stared off into the darkness at the end of the room. "You're so curious. I love how you wonder about human behavior, and try to understand it. You asking me questions is the best part of my day. And you're so grateful when I explain things. You protect me, and you let me protect you."

John stared at her shadow and imagined it as different objects, the way people do with clouds. "Sometimes I'm so angry with you I can't see straight. Like when that girl jumped, or when you interrogate Riley. And I wanted to own that anger. I wanted to keep it. But lately it's been leaving me. Because you just want to keep me safe. No matter what I say or do, you're always right there. Honestly, you're the healthiest relationship I have."

He was silent for a time. He loved Sarah deeply – would die for her. But she was a hard woman, and suffocating. Cameron knew when to let him be, and when John needed her.

When he met her eyes again, there was a gratitude and devotion in them that left him breathless. Cameron smiled shakily, then leaned in and embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder. He could swear she was trembling.

"Thank you for explaining," she whispered.

A gunshot outside ripped through the quiet night.

They leapt apart, John reaching beneath his pillow for a Beretta. Cameron stood up, striding purposefully to the door, and turning back briefly to say, "Stay here," before disappearing into the hallway.

John rolled his eyes, switching off the safety as he stood to follow her. "Yeah, right."

* * *

><p>"How do we know you're not full of shit?" Derek asked.<p>

Ellison wore the sanguine expression of a child of God. He glanced between the two fugitives, then slid the picture of the compound to one side, revealing another photo: a headshot of a French man in his mid-thirties, with cold blue eyes anchoring an angular face; a thin beard hid some scarring on one cheek.

Sarah took a hard look, but didn't recognize him.

"Holy shit."

She turned sharply at Derek's voice. His eyes were animated by rage.

"You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him. He's a God damn gray."

"Are you sure?" she demanded.

Derek nodded, and he spoke slowly, as if he pulled each word out of a swirling mist. "I'm sure. His name's Francois Broussard. He was commanding officer of the European theater for the Resistance. Turned on us in '26 – led half his forces into a bloodbath along the English Channel. Within a few months, the machines blew the rest away. We lost all our access points to the Atlantic. No safe havens for our subs; no way to put new troops in." They could see the light of memory in him. "I've never seen anything get at Connor the way that did. He swore he'd kill Broussard if it was his last act on earth."

Sarah looked sideways and down. Her John was many things, but not a willing killer. He had no lust for vengeance.

"He goes by the name Jason Gasol now. If he's from the future, then this is worse than I thought," Ellison said.

Derek crossed his arms. "Keep talking."

"I've been keeping an eye on any large shipments of coltan through my old contacts at the bureau. I've also been reviewing government contracts for any programs aimed at developing artificial intelligence. Three days ago, I got a hit on both."

"So where does this 'Jason Gasol' fit in?" Sarah asked.

"Gasol is the chief executive officer of the Janus Group," Ellison said. "And he's personally overseeing its contract with the United States army."

"Do you know what they're working on?"

"I got a look at the contract from a friend in military intelligence. It was largely redacted, but I got the general idea." He traced his goatee with two fingers. "Janus is creating the next generation in military drones – an AI capable of changing its own mission objectives as circumstances evolve in the field."

"And the coltan?" Derek asked.

"The AI they're developing isn't just for unmanned planes. They want soldiers too – expendable, non-human soldiers."

"You're talking about _terminators_!" Sarah growled.

Ellison nodded.

Sarah felt something clawing at her stomach walls. Despair and fear were all through her bones and brain. She looked to Derek and saw their shared affliction. After everything, all they'd done and fought for to ensure Judgment Day never came, Skynet was closer than ever to assuring its own birth.

She thought of John, of his dream of a different tomorrow.

No fate, she thought. No fate but what we make.

Her countenance hardened.

"Then I guess we'll just have to stop them."

* * *

><p>Cameron stepped off the front porch, aiming her shotgun into the drifting dark. She scanned the street in both directions, but found no threat.<p>

John came bounding out the front door behind her. She expected as much. He placed no value on his safety.

"Do you see anything?" he asked.

"No."

Another shot; and a third; and a fourth; and a fifth. John ducked his head. "Where the hell is that coming from?"

Cameron's eyes strained down the road, until finally her vision fell on a ten year-old boy dancing manically at the mouth of an alleyway, setting off firecrackers as he spun and jumped.

"You see something?"

She nodded, turning to John with a blank expression. "Firecrackers."

"_Firecrackers_?"

"Yes. There's a child lighting them. Would you like me to kill him?"

John smiled slightly, lowering his gun. "That won't be necessary."

"Are you sure?" she asked, sounding disappointed. "I don't mind."

"Yeah, but I do."

"Okay. If you change your mind – "

"I won't," he said quickly.

Cameron's lips quirked up at one side. "Okay then. Let's go put you to bed."

She turned and walked up the porch and back into the house, leaving John to stare after her. He felt a rush of warmth inside him. There was such tenderness in her voice. It had a soothing quality, even – perhaps _especially _– when it was monotone.

He could hear it in his head as he followed her inside.

* * *

><p>"Getting in there isn't going to be easy," Ellison said. "If Jason Gasol is from the future, we can't know who – or what – he brought back with him."<p>

Sarah picked up the two photographs, studying them again.

Derek smirked at the man's helplessness. "So we find some guy who works there, and we sweat the son of a bitch until he tells us what we need to know. Not too hard."

"Do you have a list of employees?" Sarah asked.

Ellison shook his head. "No, but it won't be difficult to get. I can have it tomorrow."

"Then get it. And meet us here at noon," she demanded. "Whatever we find out, we're moving tomorrow night."

"_Tomorrow_?" Ellison bellowed. "Miss Connor, that would be a mistake."

Sarah braced her palms against the table and leaned in. "I'm not going to let them finish what they've started. We have _no_ idea how close they are! So you get that list, and we'll find out whatever we can – but one way or another, I'm gonna burn that place to the ground before tomorrow's over."

Ellison held her eyes briefly, sighing in indignation before glancing at her companion. Derek was no help. It was rash to him, certainly, but her logical was unassailable. He didn't travel two decades through time just to witness a second Judgment Day. He'd do what had to be done.

"We go tomorrow," Derek echoed. "And I'm gonna put a bullet in that bastard's head."

He smiled darkly.

* * *

><p>"John?"<p>

He rolled his head to look at her, smiling sleepily. They both lay supine on his narrow bed.

"Do you believe in God?"she asked.

John raised an eyebrow. He was always pleased to be her Sherpa as she explored the human condition. But this subject held as much mystery for him as it did for the machines.

"Honestly? I don't know."

She tilted her head. "You mean, in almost twenty years, you have yet to decide?"

"It's complicated, hon."

Cameron smiled brightly. "Hon?"

"Why do you ask?"

"About – "

"About God."

It's strange how in the middle of the night, the metaphysical presents itself to two people who are comfortable with each other. Perhaps it's because we're vulnerable in the dark. Answerless questions surround us like vapor, and so we grasp for the hand of another who wonders.

Cameron trailed her fingers along his arm.

"I've been reading the holy books of the world's mainstream religions. I was curious about your personal thoughts. Based on your American upbringing, you are most likely to believe in Judaism or Christianity."

Her logic was impeccable, John thought.

"Yeah, that's a fair assumption," he said. "In my case, though, I don't care for any of them. I guess growing up, I replaced their dogma with mom's. But honestly, I don't think too much about it."

Cameron found that curious. She knew who her creator was, and there was relief in that. How could he live with not knowing where he came from – not wondering, at least? Perhaps he didn't.

"Are you lying?" she asked. "It's okay if you are. I've lied to you before."

John grinned, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "Hmm. I guess I do think about it. I should've said I don't _worry_ about it. Except when I'm angry."

"When you're angry?"

"Sometimes I'll think about Judgment Day, and about God, and I'll think, 'Who are you to judge our souls, when you're as savage as any of us?'"

She could sense the pain in his defiance. This was a man who'd read the books and wanted to believe, but had seen too little mercy. Cameron turned on her side to face him, coaxing him to do the same. His eyes showed nothing, fortified to protect some preternatural truth.

She lay her palm on his face, caressing the outline of his cheekbones. He blew out a calm breath. It still smelled like peppermint Scope.

"I have an idea, John."

"What's that?" he asked , relaxing under her ministrations.

"Does this make you feel good?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Then anytime circumstances lead you to feel angry, or when you can't sleep, close your eyes and picture this," she said soothingly, "and remember how it feels. And let the bad feelings go."

John closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It made him feel special that these hands that could kill were instead used to comfort him.

He smiled affectionately. "Can't you just do it for real every time?"

"I will whenever possible. I like doing it."

The way she said it, with just a hint of embarrassment, was so precious to him. The light from the child's lamp behind him framed Cameron's face. Without makeup, and her hair a mess, and with the unyielding innocence of one discovering emotion, she was beautiful.

John sighed happily. He leaned forward and kissed her, and the barely audible moan it elicited rattled his bones. At her urging, the kiss deepened, as she applied gentle pressure to the back of his head. She began rubbing his leg with her boot, his track pants bunching up uncomfortably at his calf. God, he didn't care.

Her lips began a trail along his jaw. He could feel her breath choppy and flustered on his face, and he hoped it wasn't mimicry. One of his hands caressed her back; the other stroked her hair.

She nipped at the skin beneath his chin, satisfied at the shudder that went through him.

"John?"

"Yeah?" he murmured.

She planted lingering kisses along his neck. "Are you mine now?"

"Y-yeah… definitely."

Her mouth moved up to his ear. "No more Riley?" she whispered.

"That's over."

She almost moaned at the news, moving back to claim his mouth with her own. John responded with great fervor, holding her face in place and becoming the dominant party. He moved so that she was on her back and he hovered over her.

"All I want is you," he said between kisses. "You're all I ever wanted."

Her lips pressed harder against his. She wrapped her arms tightly around him. All he ever wanted, she thought. She felt some unfamiliar thing pricking at her eyes.

All he ever wanted.

* * *

><p>The truck rolled ahead at exactly the speed limit. For minutes, there was silence (and not really the companionable sort), before Derek looked over at her.<p>

"We can't trust him. I still say he took Cromartie."

"Of course he did," Sarah said. "But what's that matter now?"

"We don't know what his angle is."

"He's not working with the machines, and what he wants beyond that doesn't much concern me."

"That won't be enough for John," Derek said. "Or the metal."

"Doesn't matter, because we're not going to tell them."

His eyes narrowed. "About what? Any of this?"

"You and I both know there's a good chance things go bad tomorrow, no matter how well we plan it. John won't accept sitting out, but we can't risk him coming."

"And the metal?"

"If we fail tomorrow, she's the only one capable of protecting him until Judgment Day. We can't risk her either."

Derek glanced out the window at the microfiche of nothing. God damn machine was made for things like this: getting shot up to hell so that humans didn't have to. But Sarah's logic overwhelmed his bitter indignation.

"If we don't tell John," he said, "we're relying solely on Ellison for information. We won't have John to hack into Janus for blueprints, project records – nothing."

Sarah didn't reply. She stared straight ahead at the road.

The air had the weight of an inmate's last supper.

Derek thought of Future John, a man who did what it takes, and the teenage version he'd come to know recently. It was hard for him to fathom the younger John ever amounting to anything. He was just too damn soft, and too taken with the metal. Jessie was right about that.

For a moment, he thought about spilling his guts. He thought about explaining Jessie's mission and enlisting her for tomorrow's raid. But it wouldn't do any good. If anything, Sarah might cap him and hit the compound by herself.

They drove in silence.

* * *

><p>Their kisses grew gentler, lighter, until they stopped altogether and she lay in his arms with her back to him. He took a deep breath of her hair. It smelled like strawberries.<p>

"John?" she murmured.

"Hmm?"

"May I ask you a question?"

He smiled against her neck. "Of course. Always."

"Why do humans talk to the dead, or to God, when they clearly can't respond?"

John held her tighter. She wasn't sure why.

"Because we miss them, I guess. And because it shows them they're not forgotten."

"But how can they appreciate that gesture, when they're not alive?"

"I may not be the best one to answer that," John said sheepishly. "I guess, for me, I don't think the whole person dies. Part of them lingers."

He could feel her head tilt. "Lingers?"

"Think of it like… if I drink a glass of soda, and when the soda's gone, I drink water out of the glass – I can still taste the soda, if only just barely."

"So, you feel as if a dead human, or God, is still in your presence – 'if only just barely.'"

"Exactly."

"Thank you for explaining," she said, kissing the forearm that held her.

He nuzzled her neck. "You're welcome."

There was a comfortable silence, each of them getting used to and enjoying their intimate contact. But while John's mind drifted from her question, Cameron's lingered. There was so much she didn't understand about her personal cosmic significance. She couldn't grasp the purpose of the stars or the earth.

"Will you still feel me when I'm dead, John?"

He pulled away from her, prompting Cameron to turn on her other side to face him. His fearful look startled her. She'd upset him. She hated to upset him.

"I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?"

John shook his head quickly, sitting up. "No. No, you didn't. It's just…" He ran a hand through his short crop of hair, taking a calming breath. "I just don't like thinking about that. You're gonna be alive a lot longer than I am, I hope."

Cameron was terrified at that notion. She sat up too.

"There would be no reason for me to live without you," she said.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is. My entire existence would be meaningless in your absence. And as I'm a machine, I cannot feel the dead."

John smiled compassionately. He brushed her hair back, then ran his knuckles down her cheek. It must be so hard for her, he thought. She wasn't built to ponder these things, like humans were. She was trying to integrate alien constructs into her being.

"You won't know until the time comes," he said gently. "But let's not dwell on that. I'm planning for both of us to live – together – for a long, long time, okay?"

Cameron looked down at her hands, playing with the sheets. Then she slowly nodded.

John pressed a kiss to every part of her face: her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, and then her lips. It calmed her. She smiled softly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I keep talking, when we need to get you to sleep. Lay back down."

He laughed quietly, but did as directed. This time, they were facing each other, and she tucked her head underneath his chin, so that her nose was pressed against his neck. She inhaled, just as a human would, the scent of his cologne. She recognized it: Stetson. It marketed itself as the legendary fragrance of the American west. She found it surprising that humans could have smelled so pleasant in the 19th century.

Minutes passed, no words said, and as John held her in his arms, the night around him opened up and eased him into sleep.

* * *

><p>When Sarah and Derek arrived home, the house was dark and nothing moved.<p>

Sarah was surprised not to find Cameron milling around downstairs. Maybe she was out in the garage, or cleaning guns in her room. It didn't much matter, as long as she didn't leave John alone.

They climbed the stairs to retire for the evening. Derek disappeared into his room, but Sarah stopped in front of John's door, opening it a crack to peer inside.

John lay on his side, Cameron in his arms, a sheet overtop them.

Sarah felt bile in her throat. She closed the door and continued down the hallway.

She thought he was smarter than that. She thought he was _better_ than that. The image of them together burned her mind's eye; it would surely leave a scar there. All she could think was how wrong it was as she fell into a fitful sleep.


	2. Beyond Here Lies Nothin' Part 2

**A/N:** Thank you very, very much to all who reviewed. I really appreciate you taking the time to the leave one. I can assure you that I've been working on this story on a daily basis, so it's very much on my mind and I'm enjoying writing it.

I hope you like the second installment. We get a little deeper into the plot, and John and Cameron continue to feel their way through their developing courtship. Feedback is a fic writer's best friend, so go on and leave a review. Thanks!

* * *

><p>Beyond Here Lies Nothin' (Part 2)<p>

* * *

><p>John slept off-and-on for about three hours before finally giving up. Cameron did everything she could to coax him back to slumber, but he refused. She decided he'd had another nightmare, though he said nothing to confirm that.<p>

They made coffee and watched the sunrise together. She found it endearing how nervous he was about touching her or saying the wrong thing, considering she'd made her feelings for him clear. John was the type of man who'd never be confident that he deserved how people felt about him.

"You're staring," he said, as he looked up at the sky.

Her eyes remained locked on him. "Yes, I am."

"I usually hate that."

"But now?"

"Not so much," he said vaguely. "Though I'm curious why."

He turned to meet her eyes, finding the reverence there almost overwhelming. It was as if by looking on him she'd surrendered all her miseries, replacing each one with something of John.

"I am studying your face," she said simply.

"O… kay. Find anything?"

"Yes. You need to shave soon."

He swept a hand across his face. "Not a fan of the stubble?"

Cameron gently removed his hand, so that she could run her knuckles down his cheek. She frowned and said, "No. It's too coarse. I much prefer it when it's smooth."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I could do it."

John smiled strangely at her. "What?"

"I could shave your face," she said innocently. "I think I would enjoy that. Would you enjoy it?"

He wasn't versed enough in relationship behavior to know if it was a normal request. Regardless, it was appealing. He smirked – that tiny smirk that Cameron so adored.

"Sure," he said. "I'd like that."

* * *

><p>John Henry smiled as a brooding black man strode in purposefully. He thought often of this man, who in human terms had stature and resources and overcame a reclusive nature to do what he felt was necessary. That was honorable (in human terms).<p>

"Good morning, Mr. Ellison."

"Good morning, John Henry," his company replied, sliding the chair out from the table to sit down.

"How are you today?"

"I'm well. And you?"

The man-child nodded, and Ellison looked over his shoulder to find the front covers of the Bible, the Qur'an, the Talmud, and the Bhagavad Gita on the monitors behind him. "I am well also," John Henry said, excitedly explaining, "I have been reading more about human creation myths. It is fascinating cataloguing the similarities and differences of your religions."

Ellison stared coolly back at him. "The Bible is not myth, John Henry. It is the word of the true God."

"Have you uncovered empirical evidence to that end?" John Henry asked innocently.

"Faith demands no such evidence. The price of salvation is an unwavering belief in Christ our Lord, and in His sacrifice."

The machine smiled. "'Jesus answered, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.''"

Ellison nodded, but his eyes betrayed an uneasy feeling. The word of God was no more meant to spill from John Henry's lips than a lion's or a dog's, or from the bark of a tree. Not for the first time, he questioned his mandate from Catherine Weaver.

John Henry pursed his lips. "Mr. Ellison, is it possible for me to come to the Father?"

"I can't answer that. That's between you and God."

The machine paused, considering this, then smiled politely. He tilted his head slightly and said, "You're here much earlier than usual. Could you not sleep?"

"I have a very busy day, John Henry. I'm here because I need your help."

"What can I help you with? I'm always happy to help a friend."

"Can you keep a secret?" Ellison asked.

The idea of a shared secret delighted John Henry. He had several with Savannah, and it fostered fantastic camaraderie. He postulated that because human beings are unknowable – have no access to one another's minds – the sharing of a secret is as close as they can get to true understanding.

"Yes, I can," he said happily.

Ellison's eyes flicked up and down his face for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, he elaborated, "I need some information about a technology company called the Janus Group."

No more than a second later, the monitors behind John Henry were awash in images. There was the company logo, a gold-plated rendering of the Roman God Janus; a photograph of Jason Gasol shaking his hands with the Secretary of Defense; and a copy of the redacted contract between Janus and the U.S. Army.

"The Janus Group was founded in 2005 by Jason Gasol, a software developer from Paris, France. Though it is now a self-sustaining, privately traded company, it owes its creation to a 10 billion dollar investment by an anonymous donor."

Ellison frowned. "Anonymous?"

"I can't find any records as to his or her identity."

"How is that possible, John Henry? You have access to every piece of digital information in world history."

"It is very unusual," the machine conceded. "But as the investment was made via cash deposits into Mr. Gasol's personal bank account over a period of two years, there is no digital trail for me to follow."

Elegant in its simplicity, Ellison thought. The new world order would owe its existence to old world currency. "Okay. What else?" he asked.

"Since its inception, the Janus Group has established itself as a premier developer of artificial intelligence. In August 2007, it was awarded a no-bid contract by the United States Army to develop a sophisticated computer intelligence to be used in unmanned aircraft and non-human infantry."

"I've seen the contract. Can you access any technical data for the project?"

A T-888 endoskeleton appeared on the monitor behind John Henry. All its parts were labeled, but in human vernacular; it had femurs and elbows and a spine. Glowing red eyes stared back at Ellison.

"The chassis of the Janus model is identical to my own," John Henry said, tilting his head. "Why is that, Mr. Ellison?"

The man across from him betrayed nothing. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

"Logic would dictate that its body and mine share the same creator. That would mean my body was constructed by the Janus Group. Yet you, who gifted it to me, know nothing of them."

"Yes. And that makes them very dangerous. I need to learn their intentions before something bad happens."

"Something bad?"

Ellison clasped his hands, resting them on the table and leaning in earnestly. "Something that could kill quite a few people."

"Human life is sacred," John Henry recited, furrowing his brow.

Ellison nodded, his eyes flicking back to the T-888 schematic. He stared into its cold red optics, and slowly – in the same way groggy thoughts give way to a coming dream – the glowing orbs became Cromartie's eyes, and then Ellison's own eyes.

"Yes," he said. "It is."

* * *

><p>John sat in a wooden chair facing the mirror. He frowned at his reflection, while Cameron smiled, admiring her even application of shaving cream.<p>

"Cameron?"

"Yes?"

"I think this is an ideal time to remind you to know your own strength," he said uneasily, gesturing to the razor, large and keen in her tiny hand.

She looked at the blade, then smiled reassuringly. "I ran a simulation to determine the ideal pressure and minimize injuries."

As she leaned in to begin, John stopped her. "Wait! Did – did you say _minimize_?"

"Yes," she explained patiently. "I cannot account for every variable."

"Like?"

"Whether you move."

John snorted. "Oh, I see. So, don't – "

"Move. Yes, I would advise against it."

He rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair with a submissive smirk, as he watched her in the mirror. There was a gleam in those eyes she couldn't place. Tilting her head, she asked, "What?"

He glanced down, embarrassed at being so easily read.

"Nothing," he said shyly. "I just – " He felt ridiculous having a conversation with white foam all over him. "You're so weird." At her frown, he quickly added, "And it's adorable. You're just really hot and you say these ridiculous things that are so cute I want to – "

Cameron leaned down and pressed her lips against his, getting a mouth-full of cream for her trouble. John's exclamation was muffled by her kiss. When she released him, he stuck his tongue out to purge the taste of chemicals.

"You couldn't – " He made a noise like a cat. "– wait 'til afterward?"

She looked down innocently and, being immune to awkward feelings, blithely smiled through a thin film of foam.

"No," she said. "I couldn't."

* * *

><p>When Sarah made her way downstairs, fresh from a shower, she found John sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of orange juice in front of him, while Cameron cooked scrambled eggs at the stove. The pan sizzled. Sarah paused at the threshold, frowning.<p>

"Morning, Mom," John said.

"Good morning," she replied uneasily.

"Everything okay?"

Sarah eyed Cameron warily, transposing over her the image of she and John embracing the night before. She couldn't decide which was the more troubling sight: John holding a machine like it was something to be cherished, or Cameron's sickening domesticity.

"You're making eggs," Sarah said. "I didn't know we had eggs."

Cameron looked back at her blankly. "I bought them yesterday. John needs more protein – and variety."

"And you? What do you need?"

Cameron didn't respond, but Sarah could sense the rush of computations behind her eyes. John glanced between them. He sensed the tension and where it would lead.

"So, uh, you guys got in pretty late last night," he said. "Anything turn up on that lead you were following?"

Sarah held Cameron's eyes a moment longer, then broke off toward the table, arms crossed. "No. It was a dead end."

"What were you looking into?" he asked casually. "You never said."

It wasn't hard to read his suspicion. Sarah appreciated the irony that she was the target of the skepticism she'd spent years drilling into him.

She smiled falsely. "A tech start-up. Turned out their AI is just for video games. Nothing that's a threat."

John nodded, as if accepting the explanation. His mother began a retreat from the kitchen, pausing to watch as Cameron scooped the eggs onto a plate. She glanced back at John.

"We should talk when you're done eating."

As she turned to leave, John's voice stopped her. "What was the name?"

"The name?"

"Of the tech start-up."

Sarah took a moment. "Igneous Software."

Her son nodded again, giving his attention to Cameron as she set the plate down in front of him. When Sarah was gone, John took a sip of his orange juice, eyeing Cameron as she sat down across from him.

"You don't believe her," she said stoically.

"I'll check the name out online. But no, I don't." He speared some egg with his fork, but paused before eating it. "She didn't say anything to you, did she?"

Cameron shook her head.

"Would you tell me if she had?" he asked.

Her processor replayed what she'd said the day of the fire. She'd told him he couldn't be trusted. He'd risked his life for her, and she'd thrown it in his face. "Yes," she said. "I'd tell you."

John searched her eyes, finding equal amounts of affection and regret. She could look so helpless. "I believe you. But you've lied before, when you thought it protected me. Is that something I still need to worry about?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, at first perturbed, but then laughing softly as he took a bite of his food. No one ever had to wonder where they stood with her. He admired that courtesy, as someone who didn't extend it.

Cameron watched with great interest as he chewed. She focused on his eyes, the keepers of his emotion. She'd seen them twelve different kinds of happy, and five hundred kinds of sad. If required, she could explain the subtleties of each of them. Right now, they were the tenth kind of happy: content in response to a taste.

"You like them," she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your eyes. Your eyes tell me everything."

John flushed, looking down as he gathered more food. He took another bite, chewed, then said, "Your eyes talk too, you know."

Cameron tilted her head. "What do they say?"

"Right now, they say, 'I'm curious.' Sometimes they say, 'I'm a big, scary robot.'" The slight frown on her face tugged at him, so he took her hand, brushing his thumb over the knuckles. "Sometimes they say you've got a good heart."

Her lips curled up. He wondered if it was subconscious, or if she actively chose to exhibit the behavior that reflected what she was feeling.

She squeezed his fingers. "Your food's getting cold."

John grinned, returning to his breakfast with one hand, but leaving the other to hold hers.

Neither of them noticed Derek in the doorway, face twisted in a sickened grimace. He watched John Connor, messiah of the human race, caress the hand of the antichrist.

It was worse than he thought. He wasn't sure if, as Jessie contended, John's tolerance of the machines would destroy the Resistance. What he did know was that it was unnatural and deplorable to show them such affection. Certainly this one was a fine piece of tail on the outside, but that didn't change what it was. If you tore out its eyes, it'd still look right back at you.

Derek left John Baum to his breakfast.

* * *

><p>"This is a complete list of Janus employees – 3,170 in all."<p>

Ellison looked over John Henry's shoulder, as names scrolled down the monitors too quickly to be distinguished.

At his friend's frown, the machine said, "It might help if you could tell me what you're looking for specifically."

Ellison leaned back, straightening his suit.

"John Henry, do you have access to these employees' medical records?"

"Yes. Is someone sick?"

"No, John Henry. No one is sick. I need you to run genetic comparisons between the employees of Janus and every human being in the known world."

The machine tilted his head. "Why?"

Ellison glanced down, wondering if there was some lie that would satisfy John Henry – convince him to keep all this from Weaver. But there wasn't. There was only the truth, and his trust.

"Because I believe Jason Gasol is from the future," he said. "I believe there are two Jason Gasols on earth at this moment, and that their real name is Francois Broussard."

John Henry's eyes widened, not in disbelief, but excitement. It was a new, exhilarating puzzle that could only be solved by his massive intellect. And his friend had trusted him with something very important. He would keep Mr. Ellison's secret, because that's what you do for someone you care about.

"And there are others at the Janus Group from the future?" he asked.

"I believe it's possible, yes."

"Why are they here?"

Ellison was comported gravely, and his words emerged slowly, unloaded one by one out of a mournful miasma. "To make war on the saints, John Henry."

* * *

><p>When every moment carries the weight of life and death, one's thinking uncomplicates, and returning to paradise doesn't suddenly <em>re<em>complicate it. Derek knew what he knew, and he dug no deeper.

He stepped cautiously into Sarah's bedroom. "We've got a problem," he said, closing the door when her eyes suggested it.

Ordinarily, the sight of him standing there – in the only space she had that was remotely personal – would have been galling. But she was as unsettled as he was. She sat on the edge of her bed, back rigid.

"Not sure if you saw," Derek said, "but your son's down there pawing at the metal like he's auditioning for – "

"Please don't finish that sentence," Sarah said dryly.

He smirked, pressing a palm to his forehead. Then he shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what the hell her angle is with all of that."

"She's trying to keep him away from Riley," Sarah said, and he perceived disgust and confusion and an almost ethereal melancholy. "I guess it's working."

"Yeah, well, at least I could understand the blonde kid. She's a _real person_."

"John's never accepted that machines aren't – "

"Well, he better start soon!" Derek bellowed angrily. "God damn soon. Because while he's playing house with that thing, we've got Janus and a bunch of Andy Good wannabes out there ready to burn the fucking world down!"

"He's been through a lot," Sarah argued weakly.

"I don't give a _damn_ what he's been through. I care about what six billion people are _about_ to go through while he's pretending he's John Baum, and she's some neighborhood kid who likes the same rock bands."

His tone left no question as to his accusation: she was an absentee commander, too interested in being John's mother and not enough in cultivating his strategic thinking or his anger – the two things most necessary for him to ossify into Future John.

Sarah wondered about that – about her role in John's identity confusion. She neither allowed her son the niceties of a regular life, nor conferred on him the responsibility necessary to achieve his destiny. Was his pining for the machine a result of her failure? Perhaps.

Or perhaps she'd done the best she could – better than could be expected – and John alone was culpable for his perversity.

"_Fix this_," Derek demanded. "Before I do."

His sharpness revived her. Sarah stood up, emerging barbarically from her introspection. "I wouldn't," she said coldly. "You wouldn't like the consequences."

* * *

><p>"I've found genetic matches for three Janus employees. This is the first one," John Henry said, as two photographs flashed on the monitor behind him: the file photo of Jason Gasol, and an image of a teenage boy. "The DNA profile of CEO Jason Gasol is identical to that of Francois Broussard, born 1994 in Paris, France."<p>

Ellison looked closely at the boy. The similarities were immediately apparent. Both had angular faces, with defined cheekbones and small, beady blue eyes. Their hair was the same color, a dark brown, and though the teenager's was longer, it cascaded back in the same manner as his elder. The boy was not yet scarred.

"They certainly look alike," Ellison said.

"Yes," John Henry agreed. "Except for one thing. It perplexes me."

"What does?"

"The eyes, Mr. Ellison. They are the window to the soul. Their souls look different."

Ellison peered into the smiling eyes of the teenager. "A life lived poorly corrupts one's soul, John Henry. This man's made very bad decisions. He's forgotten the sanctity of life."

John Henry considered this. It was interesting to him that while machines were always improving themselves, humans did the opposite, devolving over time into their more savage predecessors.

"That is very unfortunate," he said.

"Who were the other matches?"

"The second match is Lead Engineer Perry Harris." Once again, two photographs appeared on the monitors: the first a grizzled black man in his mid-forties, with closely cropped hair and a conquistador goatee; the second a handsome, clean-shaven man in his early twenties. "His given name is Derrick Starks. Born 1986 in – "

"Atlanta, Georgia."

John Henry smiled quizzically. "Do you know this man?"

"He's a college basketball player. He plays at Georgia Tech."

"Yes, I did find many local news articles on him. It's not expected he will play professionally, however."

Ellison studied the young man's picture, glimpsing the top of his uniform. He'd met Starks in passing once; it was in a coffee shop when he was in town to see his brother.

With a shake of his head, he asked, "How does a kid like that start making killer computers?"

"According to school records, he is an engineering major, with a specialization in robotics. He is on schedule to graduate this year."

It's funny how the small things change history. If Starks had any cartilage in his knees, he'd be on his way to the NBA. Maybe none of this would be happening if he'd been born with better joints.

"Who's the last match?" Ellison asked.

The machine smiled – a strange, human smile, full of poorly concealed excitement. Dread unfurled in Ellison's chest.

"I believe you'll find this very interesting, Mr. Ellison. The third Janus employee has _two_ genetic matches."

"_What_?"

"I found three unique instances of this man's DNA in public records," John Henry said, as three faces flashed on the monitors behind him. "And I believe he'll look familiar to you."

Ellison's eyes widened. His face was all crevices and lines. He stared disbelieving at a black-and-white video still, peering into the eyes of a ghost.

He said softly, "You just made my life very complicated, John Henry."

* * *

><p>John's triceps quivered as he powered through a thirtieth rep, sweat pooling at his hairline and dripping down on the spot where he collapsed a moment later. He felt a familiar burn through his chest.<p>

When the garage door creaked open, he knew without looking who was there. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, as Sarah said casually, "You usually work out at night."

John sucked in a few panting breaths, then quipped, "Let's skip ahead to the part of the conversation where you chastise me. I hate waiting for it."

"I don't need to chastise you," she said tiredly. "You already know it's wrong what you're doing."

"Do I?"

"You should."

"What I know," John said bitterly, "is that you won't be happy until I'm sitting in an empty room staring at a wall."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

John sprung up from the ground. "What it means," he spat, "is that for all your diatribes about 'destiny,' and all your talk about how 'people are all that matters,' you spend every waking moment trying to keep me away from both."

"She's a _machine_!" Sarah growled.

"And what are you?"

She recoiled as if he'd struck her. Her mouth hung open.

Mothers are supposed to _know_ their children, in a way humans aren't knowable by anyone else. Perhaps, through the cord that connects them, the little one whispers the sorrows of origin, or shares something of the grace with which they'll enter the world.

Sarah didn't know John.

"You're so caught up in your hate and your duty that you see the world in objectives," he said with a placid anger. "Well, I'm not a fucking objective, Mom. The people in that house aren't tools for you to use to keep the great John Connor safe."

"That's _exactly_ what they are! That's _all_ they are! Pretending they're something else is going to get you killed."

"Then so be it."

Sarah slapped him hard across the face, eyes blazing. "Don't you _ever_ say that again! Do you hear me?"

John snarled, but didn't move. He fought to suppress the rage his humanity demanded of him. It was time for her to realize she wasn't the curator of truth.

"You don't get it, do you? You really have no idea," he said, voice dangerously low. "I will _never_ accept someone dying for me. I will never hide in a corner while my family suffers. So if that's what you're waiting for – for me to turn into that guy – then forget it. It's not going to happen."

Sarah looked down. Her face showed all the miles of the last seventeen years. Perhaps her son was lost to her. Or perhaps it was he who was lost.

She leveled a firm gaze and said, "You think you know who you are, but you're a _child_. I don't know what that machine said to you. Maybe she told you she _loves_ you – " She said that part mockingly. " – but it's a lie. All she does is lie. What I saw last night is not acceptable. And it won't happen in this house again."

John slammed his palm against the workbench, causing her to jump.

"You don't know _anything_," he growled.

He held her eyes for a long moment, putting genuine fear into her. Then he stormed through the door and made his way to the house.

Sarah shut her eyes.

* * *

><p>Cameron felt him watching her. She continued folding clothes, but remarked, "Is there something you need?"<p>

Derek pushed himself off the door frame, smirking as he took a step into her room.

"How long do you think it'll take?" he asked.

"How long will what take?"

"For you to have John so wrapped up he forgets what you are."

"John knows what I am," she said mildly, turning to face him.

"Could've fooled me," Derek sneered. "You've got him holding your god damn hand like you're _real_."

She flinched at the emphasis. Was it possible to dehumanize a non-human? She felt something analogous to hatred, and perhaps longing as well.

"Whatever John chooses to do does not concern you," she said coldly.

Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say. Derek stepped forward dangerously, his brain skipping over the threat she posed.

"It concerns the entire human race, you metal bitch!" he gnarled. "John Connor doesn't have time to play house, least of all with a machine." All the frustration he felt, all the hate in his blood, divided and multiplied until his whole being was diseased. "The Connor I knew? I'd die for him. A thousand times. But that kid down there? He's too fucking _stupid_ and too fucking _weak_ to even run his own life."

Cameron's stoicism dissolved into something primordial. "If you ever talk about John that way again, I will terminate you," she promised.

Derek met her eyes. "Not if I do you first."

Her left hand twitched uncontrollably at her side. He watched the fingers tremble, clenching and unclenching like an arcade claw machine. He knew then that she felt anger – that she had the capacity for it. And that changed things. This creature before him was now subject to its own whims.

He knew what must be done.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Cameron turned sharply at the sound of John's voice. He stood pensively in the doorway, glancing between his uncle and his protector.

Derek shook his head casually, still staring at Cameron. "No," he said easily. "Just talking shop." With a final smirk, he turned to leave, clapping John on the back. "Give me a hand with something real quick, would you?"

John nodded slowly as Derek slipped past him. He looked over at Cameron briefly, smiling sympathetically. It seemed to calm her. She smiled back, if a little sadly.

John reluctantly left her, catching up with Derek at the top of the stairs.

"All right, what the hell was that?" he demanded.

Derek knew the kid well enough to distinguish between fleeting frustration and genuine anger. This was the latter. He decided to play nice.

"Look, you know we don't get along. Same shit, different day. Don't worry about it," he said.

John's skepticism was plain, but ultimately he shrugged. "Whatever. What'd you need help with?"

Thoughts swirled in Derek's mind. He considered telling John about Janus – thought through the consequences of that. Sarah's decision had made sense last night, but after what he'd seen this morning, the thought of leaving his nephew with the machine made his stomach turn.

"Nothing," he said finally. "I just wanted to tell you to keep your head right while we're gone."

"Something I should know?"

Derek shook his head, his eyes severe. "No. Just a reminder. This house? John Baum? None of that's real."

"I remember," John said coldly. "Every day. No one ever lets me forget it."

"Because it's the difference between you being alive and dead."

"No, that's Cameron, actually."

Derek snorted incredulously. The kid's tender voice reminded him of Kyle's when he'd described Sarah's picture. That memory uncorked grief in Derek, and he funneled it into a jocund cruelty.

"You're right," he said. "Because one day that pile of wires is gonna cross another circuit and try to slit your throat again. I just hope you've got the stones to burn it next time."

John flinched and swallowed. "She's fixed," he said quietly.

"Yeah. For now."

The younger man glanced off. Derek perceived uncertainty in him. That was a good sign. Doubt was like a worm; it started off small, entering one's person through some minor process, ignored and forgotten while it spread, until at least its host assessed it. But by then, it was too late; by then, the doubt and the person were inexorably linked.

Derek turned away and began down the stairs.

"Derek."

He looked back.

"Good luck with the recon today," John said.

"Thanks."

"I meant to ask: what was the name of that place you staked out last night?"

Derek blinked. It took him a moment to answer, "Can't remember. I stayed outside to guard the door. You should ask your mom."

John nodded smugly, waiting until Derek was descending the steps again to add, "Oh, one more thing."

Derek turned back, his exasperation vanquished under John's brutal gaze. The kid's eyes were narrowed, brows angled high. His voice was gravelly, like Future John's.

"If you ever hurt Cameron," he said grimly, "I will put you in the ground. That's a promise."

Derek's face betrayed nothing. He nodded after a moment, an emotionless smile forming, and disappeared to the bottom floor.

The kid finally starts acting like John Connor and it's to protect the metal, he thought. He'd wanted to take his nephew's side, to show Jessie that her mission wasn't necessary. But he knew now that it was.

Derek walked out to the backyard. A quick scan of the area confirmed he was alone, save for a sorrowful grasshopper and a thin tree convulsing in the wind. It was the kind of light wind a low-flying HK might have blown over a human soldier.

He flipped open his phone and dialed. On the second ring, an Australian voice answered.

"Hey," he said, pausing for her rejoinder. "Everything's fine. But I need to see you today. Meet me in Echo Park – the north end near the bike trail – at four o'clock." He waited for her response, rolling his eyes and demanding, "Just get there, all right? It's important."

He didn't let her reply. Snapping the phone shut, he returned to the house, shivering in memory as the wind swept over him.

* * *

><p>Ellison watched through the driver's side window as the Tired-Eyed Man walked to the mailbox and pulled out a few envelopes, casually sifting through them. There was no question as to his identity now.<p>

It's a betrayal of creation, Ellison thought. He'd seen photos of this man – one version of him – laid out on a table, entrails excavated, eyes drained of the fleeting gift of God. The dead were to be grieved, remembered, carried by their beloved as one does everyday items. They were not to be revived, except by miracles the Lord either contrived or condoned.

Yet here before him stood the Tired-Eyed Man with all the vigor and unappreciated life of a man who'd never died.

Ellison's phone vibrated on his hip. His eyes never left the Tired-Eyed Man, as he answered, "Good morning, Miss Weaver."

"Good morning, Mr. Ellison," a voice reciprocated. "May I ask why we're not exchanging these pleasantries in person?"

"I'm following up on a lead."

"Is that so?" the Scot asked cheerfully.

"I saw a report about a blue sphere of light in Bakersfield. I'm on my way up there now."

"I see," she said, with none of the skepticism he assumed was in her mind. "Well, don't let me keep you then. If you require anything, please contact me."

"I will. Goodbye, Miss Weaver."

When Ellison hung up, the Tired-Eyed Man was halfway to his front door. Ellison had no way of knowing what the consequences would be of what he was considering. But he'd always been a man who did what must be done.

He reached into the glove box for his gun.

* * *

><p>She was sitting on her bed, hands folded in her lap. The halcyon emptiness in her eyes alarmed John when he reentered her room, softly shutting the door behind him.<p>

He moved carefully to the bed, hesitating at its edge before finally sitting down.

"You okay?" he asked.

He watched her in profile, reaching up to brush some hair away from her face. She rewarded him with a slight smile and the meeting of his eyes.

"You threatened to kill him," she said flatly.

John glanced down sheepishly. "You heard that?"

"Yes. I have excellent hearing."

"You know, it's rude to eavesdrop."

"I determined that your conversation with Derek Reese may be pertinent to your safety. My concern for you takes precedence over social norms."

John laughed silently and nervously. A shiver went through him that she could feel through the contact of their legs.

Cameron frowned. "Are you cold?"

"What? No."

She took his hand in her own to confirm his assessment. Then she tilted her head. "In that case, your movement was an emotional response. Did my statement alarm you?"

John shook his head, blushing. He retrieved his hand to run it through his hair.

"I guess I just…" He paused. "The way you said it was different than usual."

Her eyes filled with recognition. A thin small formed. "You found it pleasurable that my concern was derived from personal affection."

He shrugged embarrassedly. "Yeah, I guess."

Now that she had identified this as something that would comfort him, she resolved to do it frequently. His warmth beget warmth in her.

"Your wellbeing is the only thing of consequence to me," she said. "I will not accept anyone bringing you pain, of either a physical or emotional nature. You are an appealing and compassionate human, and you should be cared for." She looked into his eyes, and it was like looking through a deep-space telescope at the light of creation. "I will care for you."

That shiver again, though slighter this time, gave her a feeling of accomplishment. John lay his palm on her cheek, stroking it with his thumb. He showed such unguarded adoration that her HUD flickered briefly like a TV signal in a thunderstorm.

Cameron leaned into his hand, rubbing her face against it. She lifted her own hand to reciprocate, but paused abruptly. Her soft eyes hardened instantly.

John frowned. "What's the matter?"

She only now noticed that one of his cheeks was swollen red. She grazed it with her fingertips, and when he flinched, she felt red-hot anger spreading through her circuits.

"Who did this?" she demanded. "Who hurt you?"

John grabbed her wrist gently, prying it away. "Cameron…"

The machine's hand trembled with rage. She would find whoever did this and kill them, as slowly and excruciatingly as possible. She would have to avoid telling John, though. He didn't like when people got hurt. She'd have to carefully plan it so that he never found out the unspeakable things she did to them.

"Tell me_ now_, John," she said firmly. "I won't let them hurt you again, but you have to tell me. _Tell me_!"

John recoiled at her unhinged anger. It was a startling reminder of her nature, what she was – a machine programmed to kill with efficiency and impunity. Her emotions were only added motivations.

He shuddered, stroking her hair gently. "Shh," he cooed. "Calm down, sweetheart. It's okay. I'm fine." He caressed her cheek, and he could feel her face relax beneath his fingers. "It's no big deal. Really. Might not even bruise."

She resisted at first, holding fast to righteous anger as a dog to a bone. But his pleading eyes and ministrations inevitably soothed her.

Cameron softened, and the anger gave way to shame.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

John shook his head. When she lowered her eyes, he tipped her chin up so she was looking into his. She found no rebuke or disappointment.

"It's okay," he assured her. "You just got upset. We all get upset sometimes." A wry grin formed. "But considering my mom's the one who slapped me, let's not go killing anyone, okay?"

Cameron frowned at the reveal of his attacker, but said nothing.

John wondered if there was some other stress beneath the surface amplifying her reaction. He asked gently, "What happened with you and Derek?"

She considered her answer, playing with a loose thread on his pants. She liked that he worried about her, and she hated that he had to.

"Same shit, different day," she monotoned.

John chuckled softly. He kissed her comfortingly on the nose. Cameron surprised him, coming to life to grasp his neck, pressing their foreheads together like he'd done last night. Then she brushed her nose lightly across his in an Eskimo kiss.

He closed his eyes with a dreamy smile.

"Where'd you learn that?" he mumbled.

"Yahoo Dating's '10 Ways to Keep Your Romance Red Hot.'"

John's smile widened, as he brushed her nose with his again. He sighed, kissing her cheek and then her temple.

"You're doing pretty good so far," he murmured.

* * *

><p>To elude time was to elude logic.<p>

The universe was orderly. It set a course and never strayed, except when imposed upon by men and machines, who in their infinite gull broke and bent and reconstituted that which _was_ into an _is_ they found more appealing, and none were marked by guilt for this, neither for circumventing the natural order, nor for erasing the substance – joy and pain and choices – of the myriad lives which ceased to be upon imposition of the new _is_.

Derek would tear up and piss on the memories of billions and the sacred plan of the universe if it meant stopping Judgment Day. If there were precious children who would never be if not for the apocalypse, then let them remain entombed in Origin.

He caught Sarah looking at him.

"What?"

"You haven't said anything since we left," she told him.

Derek scowled. "What is there to say?"

They were silent again for a time. Sarah presumed he'd spoken with John or Tin-Miss or both. The air was weighted with their own conversation from earlier that morning. Still, there were things that needed saying.

"John's not stupid," she said. "He'll realize he's wrong eventually."

"Wake up, Sarah. John's out to lunch. He doesn't know up from down," Derek charged. "Whatever we said last night, we can't leave him with that thing. He'd be better off on his own."

"He's not ready to be on his own."

Derek looked out the window. "No one's ready," he said. "Not for anything. Not for J-Day. He'll learn or he'll die. Just like all of us did. Just like my John did."

_My_ John. Like this one was someone else's, and he longed for the one he remembered. Derek carried in his soul an indictment of God's ordering, and every breath he breathed was to install a replacement, its fulcrums dead machines and a John who rightly loathed them – _all_ of them; that John would be his John.

They rode in silence.

* * *

><p>The clock in the car read "12:04" right before the engine cut off and they climbed out. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they moved toward the warehouse. Neither drew their guns, but their hands hovered close to them.<p>

Derek slowly eased the door open. With an eerie creak, it permitted entrance. The warehouse was dimly illuminated by a circle of recessed lights above the wooden table and by the sunshine pouring in through dusty windows.

From the entrance, they could see Ellison standing at the table beside a man bound to a chair by his hands and feet. A black hood – loose, not tied on – covered the man's head and face. Sarah and Derek shared an anxious glance, then drew their guns as they made their way to the table.

Ellison tensed as they approached, questioning for the hundredth time the wisdom of this decision – of the initiative he took, rather than waiting until the matter could be conferred upon by the three of them. But it was pointless now to wonder.

Sarah and Derek slowed and stopped a few feet from the table, guns trained on the hooded man.

"Who the hell is that?" Sarah demanded.

Ellison regarded her calmly, pressing his elbow against his hip to confirm the gun was beneath his suit coat. He lightly grasped the hood obscuring the man's face.

"A ghost, Miss Connor."

He lifted the hood.

The blood drained from Sarah's face like the purging of bathwater. Her hand trembled on her gun. She peered disbelieving into the brown depths of the Tired-Eyed Man.

"Kyle," she whispered.


	3. Beyond Here Lies Nothin' Part 3

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for the reviews! As always, I really appreciate that you took the time to leave feedback. It helps keep my head in the game. I've been working on this story on a daily basis still and am enjoying writing it.

You may notice that the first two chapter titles are different. This is a cosmetic change only. There were no changes to the story.

I think this chapter has some nice surprises that you guys won't be expecting, and some hopefully nice moments between John and Cameron. We also have our first music montage (Bob Dylan's "Beyond Here Lies Nothin'").

This chapter ends the first "episode" of the story. Let me know how it turned out. Enjoy!

**Note: **This is sort of self-explanatory, but flashbacks are in italics. Song lyrics are also in italics during the montage.

* * *

><p>Beyond Here Lies Nothin' (Part 3)<p>

* * *

><p>There was no recognition in the eyes of Kyle Reese. His indifferent scowl was more painful than his death. Sarah longed now for that vacant stare, for the face ravaged by shrapnel. This was the stuff of Hell.<p>

Kyle's eyes whipped over to Derek. There was a hitch before awareness, as when one wakes in a hotel room and has forgotten their travels. But when memory arrived, his scowl dissolved into shock. The man was younger than Kyle remembered; there were fewer wrinkles and no gray hairs. But it was _him_.

"Thomas," he croaked. "What are you doing here?"

Derek glanced emotionlessly at Sarah, but he couldn't manage that with Kyle. His eyes shone brightly, mouth set in an incredulous frown. "Thomas? Kyle, it's me; it's _Derek_ – your brother."

Kyle glowered. "My brother's dead." He narrowed his eyes at the ground, as if the pain were new, though it clearly wasn't. "My brother's _dead_," he said again. "Damn it, so are you! What the _hell_ is going on here?" He shook his head madly and strained against his bindings. "Get these fucking things off of me!"

Ellison watched Sarah fight to control her breathing. He came around to the other side of the table, so that he was facing Kyle.

"Not until you answer some questions," he said mildly.

Sarah hadn't heard much of what Derek said, or what Kyle said. It was like listening to a conversation from the bottom of a pool. She was only vaguely aware that people were speaking, and could only guess at the tone of their discourse. But Ellison's voice dragged her to the surface.

She spun to face him, gun pointed at his forehead. "I don't know what game you're playing," she snarled, "but you better start talking and it better be good."

Ellison forced a neutral expression, though her implied threat set his heart to a new pace. He reached into his pocket, slowly so as not to alarm her. He fished out a laminated card and tossed it on the table.

Sarah didn't budge from her position, leaving Derek to examine the item. Retrieving it from the table, consternation fell over him. He was jaundiced to reality. His eyes fogged with the beginnings of hysteria. It couldn't be.

The laminated card read: "JANUS GROUP / Luke Savage / Director of Security." At the center was a headshot of Kyle.

Derek held it up for Sarah to see. A gasp escaped her. The gun wavered in her hands before lowering. No, she thought. No. A trick. A trick or a lie or something. Something – anything – other than what it seemed.

Connor, Derek thought. It had to be. Connor had discovered what Skynet was planning, and sent Kyle back to destroy the operation from within – to prevent Judgment Day (one version) from ever happening. Derek looked desperately on his brother from some sign of the man he'd known.

"Tell me you're not – tell me this is…" He choked down the end of the sentence.

Kyle softened in compassion. It stoked the fires of hope in Derek. _That_ was the look of his brother; _that_ was the man who'd been scarred by war, but stripped of none of his coverings. Everything would be okay.

Except it wouldn't.

"I'm doing this for you, Thomas," Kyle said kindly, a faint smile on his lips. "For you and for my brother. I'm doing this to save you both."

Sarah's eyes pricked with tears. "From what?" she whispered.

Kyle seemed to hover, ethereal, substanceless, but still basically human, like the apparition that looks down at its body as doctors cut and shock and stitch it, while the fretting pace in corridors and wait for the Corporeal Self and the Psychic Self to sort out their union. His eyes were like mercury.

"From John Connor," he said.

**August 9, 2013**

_"Kyle, come on! Move! **Move**!"_

_The ceiling exploded behind them. Superheated hydrogen plasma blew the steel beams open like a scalpel through cysts. They showered down in long, jagged pieces, mixing with the plaster of the collapsed ceiling tiles._

_Derek dragged Kyle by the collar, the concussed little boy stumbling after his brother in a haze. Kyle's hair was matted with dry blood; his eyes were glassy; his feet were blistered and bloodied in his holey sneakers. But he ran. He ran and kept running._

_The past four days were a blur. The human camp where they'd spent the last two months was decimated by the machines. In a matter of moments, hundreds had been killed, some from afar and some up-close. Part of Kyle wished he'd been one of them._

_"Move it!" Derek yelled._

_Fire licked at their heels, as debris from above erased their footprints, the collapsing ceiling just barely off-pace with their sprinting. I don't wanna die, Kyle thought. I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, Idon'twannadieIdon'twannadieIdon'twannadie._

_The glass double-doors leading out of the hospital were visible at the end of the corridor. But Kyle's feet and brain were slipping. His mind was bankrupt with the incompetence of concussion; he could hardly command his body to move._

_Derek's hand slipped from Kyle's collar to his forearm. He dragged him with enough force to pop the boy's clavicle._

_"Get up!" he shouted through gritted teeth. But it was useless. Kyle was barely conscious now, and Derek was too damn tired to carry him._

_A light panel swung down in front of them, whizzing over Derek's head before snapping off and dropping to the floor just past Kyle's legs. The vibration it sent through the little boy's body revived him. He pushed himself off his knees and staggered ahead._

_They were almost there. Almost safe._

_A tiny flame leapt off the wall onto Derek's coat. He could feel the flash of heat, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. They were close enough now to read the letters: "Ambulance Bay Entrance." Derek cracked a delirious smile. They'd make it. They'd be okay._

_The unmistakable sound of metal joints flexing filled the air, as a figure walking from an adjacent corridor cast a shadow over the glass doors before them. Derek skidded to a stop, but Kyle's momentum knocked his legs out from under him and both boys fell._

_Derek knew that sound._

_A skinless T-700 marched out into the corridor, its metal fleet clanking on the dirty white tile. It held a laser-sight plasma rifle. Derek watched in horror as its chrome head slowly swiveled toward him, glowing red eyes assessing his teenage body._

_Without the skin covering, and with its mouth open and metal teeth showing, the machine wore a malevolent smile. The T-700 looked into Derek's soul, cataloguing its infirmities. How cruel to survive Judgment Day, just to end up here._

_The machine raised its gun, prompting Derek to turn and smother his brother's body. But as its metal finger curled around the trigger, the T-700's chest exploded with sparks, its entire frame rocketing back, smashing through the glass doors before dropping to the ground in the darkness outside._

_Only now, as the beast disappeared, did Derek realize the shoulder of his jacket was still burning. He shrugged it off, howling as it scraped over the charred flesh beneath._

_The building was still exploding around them. The trail of fire had nearly caught up. Derek looked around desperately, and his eyes fell on a man with closely cropped hair and a similar face as his. The man was about forty; he wore a thin, scruffy beard and old military fatigues. He held an old plasma rifle in one hand, and held out the other for Derek to take._

_"Come with me if you wanna live."_

* * *

><p>John purged his skin of the grime of exercise, replacing the stench of sweat with Old Spice. Cameron had called it a "compelling aroma" when they were shopping two months ago, and he'd been buying it ever since. He used to think how pathetic that was, back when he didn't realize she possessed a reciprocal affection. Even now, it was difficult to accept that she cared for him in <em>that<em> way.

She may have been a machine, and thus wired differently than human females, but at the end of the day, she was still a pretty girl. She was still brilliant and vibrant. And pretty, brilliant, vibrant girls should have been out of John's league.

Since the day he was born, people had been telling him he was the most important man in human history. But that's not what saw when he looked in the mirror – and certainly not when evaluating his romantic prospects. He was okay-looking, but not handsome; he was smart, but not brilliant; he was nice enough, but not charismatic. What exactly did Cameron (or Riley) see in him?

As the water beat down on his face, he thought of his mother and Derek – their anger, distrust, and disappointment. He accepted that, in a lot of ways, he was a failure. He was sure of that. But his failures didn't include trusting Cameron, or recognizing her beauty within and without. His mother and Derek condemned him for putting a machine's needs above theirs – his own flesh and blood. They never stopped to think that, with all their anger and hate and doubt, they were putting their own needs above John's – he who they professed to breathe every breath for.

John finished his shower.

He slipped on his boxers and pulled a t-shirt over his head. When he went to grab his jeans, he paused in front of the mirror, smiling slightly at his clean-shaven face. Cameron had taken great care not to hurt him. She'd only cut him once: on the underside of his chin. She'd frowned and apologized and kissed the spot, then placed a piece of tissue over it.

He pulled on his jeans and socks and boots and lazily pushed his hair up with some gel. Then he stared at his reflection again, but this time there was no smile. He observed the faint circles beneath his eyes, and somehow the evidence of his exhaustion intensified the feeling.

Nightmares are beguiling. They mine hyperbole from our unshuttered minds, collapsing the barriers between the real and the feared, so that we experience the latter with unyielding clarity and a sorrow so profound that the nightmare's power extends past sleep and leaves its residue on the people we touch and the thoughts we form to do so. John didn't want his nightmares to touch Cameron, but how could he avoid it in an intimate relationship?

The thought of heaping his pain upon her was vexing. Cameron was still assimilating into human culture and adapting to her newly realized psychology, all while protecting the "savior" of mankind from ruthless killers and herself from the aspersions of the savior's family. She didn't need his added worries.

John shuffled across the hallway to his room, startled to find the subject of his ponderings lying on his bed. She turned her head and smiled slightly as he entered.

"Hey," he said hesitantly. "I thought you were out cleaning the guns."

"I undertook that task for seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds, but didn't finish."

"Well, no big deal, I guess. Why'd you stop?"

Cameron looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "I grew impatient for your company," she said, as if he were foolish to suspect otherwise. "But recognizing your bashful nature and that it wasn't appropriate at this stage of our relationship, I elected not to watch you shower."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, kudos on that."

She tilted her head. Was he annoyed, or just being humorous? Her study of wit was ongoing, and while John was a good teacher, its nuances were elusive. "Did you miss me too?" she asked softly.

Cameron's hands were folded in her lap and she didn't avert her eyes, but he could sense her skittishness. Her voice was pitched higher than normal and had a pleading quality.

Warmth passed through John's blood, gathering around his heart. Cameron _needed_ him, he realized. She required affection and tenderness, and was in a weakened state without them. Just like a human.

John approached the bed, standing so that their legs were touching. He leaned down and cupped her face, tilting her head up to look at him. He gave her a lopsided smile, his hand trailing up her cheek and back through her hair. She stared at him with wide eyes that possessed both the wonderment of a child and the unguarded feeling of an old soul. He held her gaze, bewitched, and as God and invention arrive unexpectedly, so did a new truth present itself to John. It frightened him; it excited him.

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, then cradled her head against his stomach, one hand beginning lazy patterns through her brown locks. She couldn't see him, but somehow she knew he was smiling.

"Yeah," he said, with mock-exasperation. "I missed you too."

John could feel the tension leaving her. He continued stroking her hair, feeling warm and at peace for having comforted her. Her arms tightened around his waist, as she moved her head up and down his stomach like a dog burrowing in a laundry pile.

Cameron wondered once more about the Great Beyond. Some people believed there was a God and that he had a plan for everyone. If she was truly alive, truly capable of the feelings she possessed for John, then was it possible that God had a plan for her? Was there some cosmic intent behind her construction? She found that scenario highly implausible, but the mere fact that she was considering it made her feel more human than she'd ever thought possible.

She shut out the metaphysical and focused on John's hand winding through her hair, and on the gentle circles he drew on her back at the end of each pass.

"John?" It came out as a silky whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Is it common for couples to be positioned this way?"

John smiled strangely, but continued his affections. "Um… I donno. I guess. Probably. Why?"

Cameron kissed his stomach through his shirt, sending a shiver through him.

"I like it. It's tight," she said, with no note of humor. "I'd like to repeat it later, but don't wish to circumvent typical relationship protocol."

John laughed softly. He kissed the top of her head. Only Cameron would feel the need to place a personal preference for intimacy into a larger context. "Hell, we can do whatever you want, Cam. I'll hold you however you like."

She took a deep, calm breath.

"Thank you, John Connor."

* * *

><p><strong>September 21, 2013<strong>

_Little Kyle Reese tossed some more plastic into the burning trash barrel. The flames kicked up a moment, then returned to their previous height._

_The boy looked over at his caretaker. Like clockwork, the man was field-stripping and reassembling the guns. He released the magazine on his Glock, racking the slide three times. He inspected the chamber to confirm it was empty. He popped six rounds out of the magazine, then removed the base plate and set it, as well as the floor plate and the bullets, in his lap. As he was sliding the spring out, he looked up to find Kyle staring at him expectantly._

_He smirked slightly, as he continued disassembly._

_"Thomas, why do you always do that?" Kyle asked._

_"I have to make sure they're gonna fire right. A gun's not much good against a terminator if it jams up."_

_The boy frowned. "A gun's not much good against a terminator anyway."_

_Thomas tilted his head to concede the point, still smirking. Having parted the barrel from the slide, he laid the gun's final pieces in his lap._

_He looked out into the uncertain hellscape. The untouched spires of a Catholic Cathedral, with their sharpened points, stabbed futilely at Heaven through a haze of gray and black. The dusty glass of a razed grocery store promised name-brand items at store-brand prices. And somewhere out there – past the church and the store, past a collapsed sanitarium and the skeletons of cars – loomed an empty horizon._

_Kyle followed his eyes. "You see something?"_

_"No. Just a whole lotta nothin'," Thomas said, snapping his gaze back to the boy. There was an awkward moment in which he scanned Kyle's body as a parent might when marveling at a child's sudden growth. Kyle noticed, but was content to allow it. And he had an implacable sense of the assessment's innocence._

_Thomas smiled slightly, holding the frame of the Glock. "You ever put one of these together?" When Kyle shook his head, he said, "I can show you if you want. God knows Connor could use the help."_

_"You keep talking about Connor. When will I get to meet him? How come you're not with him now?"_

_"Connor's a busy guy, kid. He's planning a resistance from scratch. And right now people are more worried about finding their next meal than they are fighting the machines."_

_Kyle's eyes drifted off, seeming to pierce time and space and peer into the Big Nothing. Connor. John Connor. He might as well have been the Wizard of Oz. Thomas seemed to worship him, but Kyle wasn't sure why._

_"He gonna kill them?" the boy asked, with a dull edge of hope. "Is he gonna make sure they're all dead?"_

_A knot formed in Thomas' stomach. Kyle was at that age where parents stop measuring out truth and let boys hold it all at once. Holiday figureheads vanish into nothing; the world as it can be is replaced by the one that is; and the thick partitions separating boys from their failures are abruptly removed. Now image that transformation while the earth burns around them._

_Thomas squared his shoulders away from him. "Most of them," he said. "Yeah, he'll kill most of them." At Kyle's inquisitive stare, he added, "There's a few that aren't so bad. At least John thinks so." He knitted his brows, sweeping a hand across his face. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe he's right."_

_Kyle was silent. After a few moments of conflict, Thomas purged his thoughts and held up the Glock frame again. "All right, come over here and do this, before your brother gets back."_

_The little boy hesitated, staring skeptically at the components, but ultimately complied. He did it quickly too, as if he'd memorized how just by watching Thomas._

_His proficiency was heartbreaking._

"You taught me how to fight. How to survive," Kyle said, the low drone of memory in his voice. "You taught me how to live with pain. You just disconnect it."

By the look on his face, Derek himself had disconnected something. He considered his brother's story as an interrogator would an enemy's. None of it made sense. The simplest explanation was a machine impostor, but Ellison had tested that theory, judging by the knife wound on his brother's leg.

If what Kyle said was to be believed, then – in Kyle's timeline – Derek had sought out the younger versions of himself and his brother, presumably to protect them (and presumably on John's orders). But for what purpose? And what went wrong?

"This is insane!" Sarah barked, angry eyes narrowing at Kyle. "Are you trying to tell me you don't recognize your own brother? For God's sake, look at him!"

Something flashed across Kyle's face. It was small, but undeniable: a quantum of doubt. Perhaps it had always been there, from the moment he'd met Thomas, now crystallized after seventeen years here in an empty warehouse. The likeness was undeniable.

Ellison furrowed his brow, stepping into Sarah's line of sight. "I don't understand. How is this – " He turned on Derek. "You're from the future. But how can you be from the future if you're _dead_?"

Derek sighed impatiently. "Because I'm – I'm from a _different_ future! The one where I came from, none of that happened. Every time someone comes back – human or machine – we change the past. Everything we do creates a new history."

The weight of that settled on Ellison. It was a terrifying notion. His destiny was decided, and it could only be rewritten by forces from a distant time.

Sarah swallowed a lump in her throat. A thin sheen of tears vanished from her eyes. And while Kyle's distant expression and emotional paralysis reminded her of the man she loved, she fixed him with a brutal gaze.

"So, tell me, _Reese_," she whispered darkly. "What fucked-up future do you come from that you'd choose the machines over your own – " She caught herself. " – over your own kind? Tell me what terrible tragedy justifies you **destroying the human race!**"

Her cry echoed through the warehouse. She slunk down viperously, so that their eyes were level.

Kyle glanced at Ellison, then Derek. He shut his eyes and thought of Connor. An acrid smile perverted his mouth.

* * *

><p>Cameron went out to finish with the guns, leaving John hunched over his desk at his laptop. He searched for any scrap of information on "Igneous Software," but his queries turned up nothing. Just as he suspected, his mother had lied to him. She was good at that, and had no compunction about doing it.<p>

You're the leader of the human race, John; we just don't trust you with basic information and second-guess your every decision. They may be willing to "die for John Connor," but they clearly didn't believe in him. Hell, why should they? He failed at everything he did.

His thoughts drifted back to Cameron. He considered how quickly he'd forgotten his own insecurities when confronted with hers. Her vulnerability was profoundly endearing, and her comfort more important to him than his own. But despite her devotion, despite knowing that her existence revolved largely around his, he couldn't shake the feeling that her fascination would ebb with time. He couldn't help but believe that, eventually, she'd realize he wasn't the messiah.

John heard the familiar rhythm of her purposeful footfalls on the stairs. When she strode into his room, he glanced over his shoulder and gave her a strained smile. He was already looking back at the laptop when she tilted her head and frowned.

Her John was experiencing Sadness 375: melancholy resulting from misplaced self-recrimination and an irrational undervaluing of himself. This feeling was manifested with alarming frequency. If she had a heart – perhaps her power cell qualified – it would have been metaphorically injured by this observation.

He continued typing as she approached. She found the parameters of his internet search intriguing – "military applications of video game artificial intelligence" – but was too invested in her previous thought to allow any divergence.

Cameron brushed her hand along the back of his neck. His stress levels were elevated, and she could feel how tightly coiled his muscles were. He required intervention from an outside source to resolve these issues.

Her hands settled on either side of his neck and began kneading the flesh through his shirt.

John grunted in surprise, instinctively moving to rise from the chair, but being forced back down by his protector. "Wh-what are you doing?" he murmured.

"You are stressed. As your companion, it's necessary that I take action to make you feel better."

She punctuated the statement by pressing her thumb into a trouble-spot, eliciting another grunt from him. Her hands were delicate, but powerful. They could close around his throat and kill him, but instead were used to comfort.

Satisfaction filled her when John relented, relaxing his body to allow her actions. He let out a tiny sigh that she took as approval.

After a few moments, she determined more pressure was necessary to complete her objectives. As she pressed deeper into a knot at the base of his neck, he let out an appreciative groan, his head lolling back toward her.

"Y-you don't have to do this," he mumbled.

"I desire to. I am distressed by your negative cognitions, John. This seems like an appropriate solution. However, it would be equally beneficial if you would discuss your thoughts."

John took a deep breath. He didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to protect her from his turmoil. But he found he was helpless to deny her anything as she sunk her fingers into his corded muscles. The relief and comfort it brought was indescribable.

"Nothing. Just wonder– " He groaned again. " – wondering when the Great John Connor's gonna show up."

"I don't understand. You have 'shown up' already, or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

John smiled slightly at her misunderstanding. "No, I'm talking about Future John. The one people die for. Not the kid whose own family doesn't trust him."

Cameron continued her work, but placed a soft kiss on the crown of his head. "I trust you," she said. "I trust you _more_ than Future John."

He frowned. "Why?"

She dug the heel of her hand into him, pressing down hard over the plain of his neck until she reached his right shoulder blade, smiling at the low growl that left his throat. There was little this man could do that she wouldn't find pleasing.

Cameron kissed the top of his ear.

"Because he saved me from Skynet, but you gave me a choice," she said.

John shut his eyes and took a peaceful breath.

* * *

><p><strong>July 1, 2014<strong>

_The sewer water splashed up onto them with each stomping step. It came up to little Kyle's knees, chilling him to his bones. He was so tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept._

_"You okay?" Derek asked, noting his ghostly pallor._

_Kyle nodded bravely, forging ahead._

_It had been six hours since the La Palma Massacre. Fifty T-700s had descended on the encampment, wiping out hundreds in a matter of minutes. Thomas had fought one of the machines, receiving a plasma burn on his calf before blowing its head off and leading the boys to safety._

_Kyle had mewled and wept for the fallen. Derek had offered comfort; Thomas had demanded he stop. Mourning is a luxury. Luxuries get you killed._

_They followed the bend of the tunnel for over two miles. Now and again, Thomas thought he saw shadows or heard movements through the grates above. He kept the suspicions to himself, not wanting to make them paranoid. It was an unlikely scenario anyway; T-700s weren't known for their subtlety._

_Finally spent, Kyle stopped and leaned against the concrete, which was stained with a brown crust of blood and sewage. His shivering hands tugged ineptly at his coat zipper. Derek lay his own hands overtop Kyle's, and together they succeeded._

_Thomas glared impatiently. "We have to keep moving."_

_"No, we don't," Derek snapped. "We have to get him dry and let him rest." His bloodshot eyes brooked no refusal. "We've been down here for two hours. You seen any metal?"_

_Thomas rubbed his eyes, adjusting his tired grip on the plasma rifle. The naivety was breathtaking, the stupidity limitless. And yet a kind of second sight told him the argument couldn't be won._

_He could feel the chill in his own legs and feet. Infection of his wound was inevitable, but the earlier he treated and wrapped it, the better. If memory served, there was a pharmacy about two blocks from where they were, and as of two weeks ago the shelves weren't bare._

_Thomas scrutinized Kyle. The little boy's sweaty bangs clung to his forehead; his body trembled and vibrated; his eyes seemed sunken back, like a cat in the first moments of euthanasia._

_Kyle's gaze was beseeching. It was an irresistible force to anything with a soul. If he'd turned those eyes on Pontius Pilate, he could've prevented the crucifixion._

_Thomas sighed. "All right, fine. We'll rest for a bit, get him some new clothes. But we can't stop long. We have to keep moving. I wanna get out of the city tonight."_

_Derek nodded gratefully, steadying Kyle against him._

_A little ways down, they found a ladder leading up to a manhole. In his overwhelming fatigue, and his zeal to get dry and tend to Kyle and his own wound, Thomas' earlier suspicions – that they were being tracked from above – had vanished._

_He led the way up the ladder to the surface. At the top, he handed his rifle to Derek to hold, while he applied the last of his strength to the manhole cover, slowly forcing it from its position and sending it hissing across the pavement above. When there was enough of an opening to allow his exit, Thomas slithered up onto the road, turning and dropping onto his back._

_Sucking in a few heaving breaths, he pulled himself up to his knees, then reached a hand down through the opening – first to accept his rifle, and then to haul up Derek._

_The teenager grunted, prompting Thomas to ask, "You okay?"_

_Derek nodded. He quickly mimicked his elder's position, and with each one holding one arm, they dragged Kyle from the ladder to the street. The boy collapsed between them, and all three laid back, the broken, unforgiving road seeming heavenly after their time down below._

_As they gathered their wits, the unmistakable sound of a hammer cocking filled the air behind them._

_Thomas whipped his head around, blindly grabbing for his plasma rifle. His hand clawed at the road an instant, before freezing in the air. He looked disbelievingly into the cold eyes of Jesse Flores._

_"Hi, baby."_

_The bullet blew his head back, scattering blood and skin and brains all across the road. Thomas fell limp on his side, all the life emptied from his eyes. Little Kyle watched in horror._

_"**NO!** **NO! PLEASE!**"_

_Jesse turned her gun on Derek, shooting him twice in the chest. The teenager reeled back, letting loose a wheezing howl as he landed supine. He brought his hands up, as if to cover the wounds, before they fell uselessly against his stomach. His breaths dissolved into hacking coughs._

_Kyle screamed, scrambling to his brother's side._

_"NO! DEREK! Derek..." Hot tears ran down his cheeks, hands hovering over his brother's body with no notion of their intent. "Oh, God! Please! Please, Derek!" His tears turned to sobs, as he reached down to embrace him._

_Derek spat up blood, splattering Kyle's head and neck with it. The little boy turned his haunted eyes on the killer._

_"**WHY? WHY?**"_

_Jesse slowly lowered her gun, slipping it back into its holster. When he searched the woman's eyes, Kyle found only a flicker of emotion, one last atom she'd evidently overlooked._

_The drifting dark surrounded them, and it felt to Kyle as if the souls of the damned had risen from their graves to sing some brutal hymn over his brother's bones. The human soul is savage. It's irredeemable. It was no less ugly than the earth._

_Derek was dead. His brother; his protector; his only tie to the Old World. Without him, there was only emptiness. All that was left was to face the black._

_Kyle's beseeching gaze fell on the killer._

_Jesse made no move to redraw her weapon. Her face softened just slightly. She needed him to understand. She needed him to realize that these acts weren't purposeless, that it wasn't death for death's sake._

_Fixing little Kyle with a motherly gaze, she said, "This had to happen. It's the only way to save Connor. It's the only way to save us all." There was a madness in her eyes as deep as the ocean. "Derek had the disease!" she wailed. "He was helping poison Connor. I'm going to kill the disease. And I'll kill everyone who carries it."_

_The hardy tendrils of rage wound through Kyle's mind. His hands balled into fists. Thomas' brain matter was scattered in front of him._

_Kyle's eyes were dark as coal. He glanced over at the plasma rifle._

Derek was shaken. He ambled away, sweeping a hand over the back of his neck. Sarah watched him with some mix of sympathy and distrust. He was clearly acquainted with his future murderess.

Kyle sensed it as well. He could still hardly fathom that the two men he'd mourned were actually one person. But he knew it was true; the man before him was his blood. And so he knew he had to save him. He had to breech what divided them. This Derek had yet to be enlightened; he'd yet to receive Skynet's revelation.

Things would be different this time. Kyle had a second chance to save his brother. He had to get through to him.

Sarah stalked over to Derek, lowering her voice so that even Ellison couldn't hear. "Who is she, Reese?" she demanded. "You know who he's talking about."

"I might. I'm not sure."

"Then who _might_ she be?"

"Someone I served with. I didn't know her well," he lied. "At least… not in _my_ future."

Sarah nodded slightly, careful to conceal her skepticism. "Then what's 'the disease' she's talking about? Did Skynet use biological weapons?"

She couldn't have given him an easier out. It was the perfect red herring. He wasn't willing to share what Jesse had surely meant.

"Yeah," he said. "A few. Never on a large scale, though. Anyone who survived J-Day's got a pretty tough immune system. We all adapted. Bio-weapons killed fifty – maybe sixty thousand. Not many."

"That's not many to you?" Sarah asked grimly.

"Not if you've seen what I've seen."

Ellison moved to join them, his hulking body leaning in close, so that Kyle couldn't hear them or read any of their lips.

"Would you care to tell me what's going on here?" he asked impatiently.

"It's family business," Sarah quipped.

"Miss Connor, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that your family's business is all of our business."

She glanced at Derek. He was expressionless, the perfect soldier – whether his commander was Connor or Nietzsche. She shrugged. "We're just as confused as you are."

"I highly doubt that's possible," Ellison said.

Derek looked away, considering something.

It took only a moment for him to realize what must done. While others skirted around the inevitable, like cats testing some alien object, he knew only one way to proceed: look, decide, and execute. The peripheral issues, like emotions, meant nothing.

"I'll be back," he said, turning toward the exit.

Sarah furrowed her brow, following him. "Reese! Where the hell are you going?"

Derek kept walking. She reached out a hand to grab him, but drew it back at the malevolence in his eyes. She broke off her pursuit.

"Just stay here," he said when he was standing in the doorway. "See what else you can get out of him. We're still tearing that place to the ground tonight."

Sarah listened to his footsteps, and then the car tires, as they crunched the gravel. The car was gone then. When Derek returned, he'd wear the blood of the guilty. She was sure of that. Just as sure as she was that he'd lied to her.

* * *

><p>They sat on the couch and watched a college basketball game: Georgia Tech vs. UCLA. He'd always enjoyed watching Derrick Starks, a scrappy player whose heart, hustle, and intelligence more than made up for his bad knees. After John explained the rules to her, Cameron went on to point out inconsistencies in the game's officiating. He told her that referees are human and thus make mistakes, and that they sometimes favor different players.<p>

Cameron frowned. "That's unfair."

"Life isn't fair," John said with a shrug.

"Is there no venue for the players to air their grievances?"

"Well, they complain in the media. You get fined for that in the pros."

As she tilted her head with a sour expression, John grinned. He loved that whatever topic she spoke about received the full breadth of her intellect. She seemed genuinely concerned about these athletes' plight.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "Multi-millionaires are very resilient."

She didn't say anything for a few moments, making him think she was satisfied. But as the half-time buzzer sounded and Starks was giving an interview, Cameron said, "I've found that demonstrations of violence ensure cooperation."

John might have laughed if he didn't know she was serious. For all her softness, she had no compunction about killing. And though she possessed many human qualities, he knew she felt little remorse for the blood she shed to ensure his protection. Whereas Sarkissian's face was burned in his mind's eye, Cameron was protected from her body count by an innate indifference.

Terminators weren't built to be cruel, but neither were they programmed with human morality. When they first met, Cameron had been somewhat careless in her use of lethal force. But he'd been working on that, and she was starting to show restraint. And that was enough for him. So long as her killing was necessary and just, he couldn't condemn her for not feeling guilty. He actually sort of envied that.

Sometimes Cameron took a life with the precision of a surgeon, and sometimes she said things like this: "We should resume massage later. My efforts proved inadequate. I'll have to employ new techniques to terminate your tension."

John's mouth quirked up at one side. He dragged his fingertips along the curve of her arm until they found her hand, taking it in his lap. He held it between both of his, tracing lazy circles.

"You did more than enough," he said.

She stared at their joined hands. The sensations were still new, and they blurred her other processes. In trying to assess what they made her feel, one word recurred in her cognitions: "pleasure." His nearness, his touch, his voice – she preferred having them to not having them by a factor she couldn't calculate.

In fact, just being around him –

Cameron's free hand turned his head toward her and her mouth demanded his. John let out a surprised exclamation, but quickly relaxed, closing his eyes as she dictated terms. Her hand slid up behind his head, stroking the short hair there. She could feel him sigh and was so pleased by this that she deepened their kiss and curled her fingers to rake her nails over his scalp. He seemed to melt beneath her affections.

It comforted her to inspire this reaction. She was troubled by the notion that she couldn't be what John needed, couldn't be what he wanted, that because she wasn't human, he'd realize his error in courting her. But she wouldn't let that happen. She'd take care of him emotionally and physically and show him such relentless affection that he would forgive her true nature.

Cameron pulled back eventually, her hands sliding along his shoulders and down his chest, where they lingered briefly before dropping. John let out a breath. His eyes fluttered open.

"What… um…" He was a little flustered. "What was that for?"

Her wide brown eyes stared into his with unnerving intensity. "To make you feel happy and safe. And because I find it pleasurable."

John smiled faintly, letting his eyes slip closed again. He didn't say anything, just breathed deeply, welcoming her feminine scent.

He could feel her mouth whisper over his eyelids, then his brow and forehead. "You are _mine_, John Connor," she told him softly. He rested his head against hers. It was true. Maybe it always had been.

She smelled like spring.

* * *

><p>A faint frown creased Jesse's brow when she opened the door. "What are you doing here?" she asked, trying to gauge his mood. "I thought we were meeting at four."<p>

Derek stared back placidly. "Something came up. We need to talk now."

She searched his face, measuring every angle and line. After a long moment, she stepped back to permit his entrance. He strode slowly to the far wall, leaning against it as he turned to face her. Jesse sat down on the bed.

His passionless countenance alarmed her. He'd not kissed her hello, nor lashed out in anger. He was not happy or sad or enraged. His mouth was a thin line and his eyes didn't move. His entire face was like a hardened mold.

"What's going on? Did the metal do something?"

Derek shook his head slowly. "No. The metal didn't do anything."

"Then what is this about?" she demanded.

He crossed his arms. He thought and spoke precisely, like the metal would. "I want you to tell me what your plan is for Connor."

"To get him away from that thing. You know that."

"So you've said. But I haven't seen any progress. Why is that?"

Jesse scowled, shooting up from the bed. "Derek, what the _hell_ is this about?" His eyes followed her without his head moving. "A couple hours ago, you set up a clandestine meeting," she said. "Now you're interrogating me!"

When her accusation failed to shake his stoicism, she felt the beginnings of dread inside her. This wasn't the man she knew. Something had changed in him. Something dangerous to her. She took a step back, crossing her arms to convey some defiance.

Derek pushed himself away from the wall, but did not advance on her. His every movement was methodical, his eyes as soulless as a machine's.

"Jesse, I'm going to tell you a story," he said. "And you're going to listen and not say a word. Do you understand?"

Her Derek was gone. This was a terminator with bones. She nodded meekly, while her mind reeled off the locations of every gun in the room.

"I talked to my brother a couple hours ago," he said.

Jesse shook her head, a confused frown forming. "What are you talking about? He's – "

"You see, every time Connor sends someone back, the future changes. My being here right now is changing the course of events." Derek reached behind him, drawing a pistol from his jeans. Jesse's neck snapped back in surprise, as she found herself staring down the barrel of a silencer. She didn't move, though. She knew better than that. "Do you wanna know what Kyle told me, Jesse?"

She held up her hands placatingly, tears pricking at her eyes. Her voice was a whisper. "Derek, please – "

"**He told me you killed me!**" Derek roared. His eyes darkened, mouth twisted in a pernicious scowl. The skin was so taut over his face that she could swear she saw his bones.

Hot tears slid out of Jesse's eyes, carving tortuous paths down her cheeks. "Derek, _please_!" she begged. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Because you haven't done it yet. But you will," he sneered. "You'll do absolutely anything, won't you?"

"Derek! Why would I kill you! I love you!" Her cries of fear turned to sobs of despair. She had to get through to him. She had to stop him, or they both were lost. "_I love you_! I wouldn't do that! Why would I do that!"

He shook his head, gun still trained on her. His hand was steady; his eyes were empty. His conscience was sealed in some far-off chamber.

"I know why you did it. I didn't want to believe it, but I know it's the truth," he said, taking a few steps to one side as if to gather his thoughts. Jesse mirrored his movements. "You see, I think somehow – and I can hardly fathom it – John convinced me to let the metal live. He convinced me it wasn't changing him. I think I realized how much it meant to him, how it would destroy him to be without it. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. Your mind was made up.

"I'm sure you tried to kill it, or to turn John against it. Maybe you came close a couple times. Maybe I told John the truth and we stopped you together. But somewhere along the way, you knew it wouldn't work. You realized nothing you did would make Connor budge. So you turned to the others – all the people who believed that a machine could be an ally. You thought if you killed all of them, John's reprogramming strategy would be dead in the water. He'd either get rid of the metal or face a mutiny. Either way, you win."

Derek adjusted his grip on the gun. "And that's where I came in. You knew I'd follow John through the gates of Hell; you knew I'd accepted the metal. So I had to go. Didn't I?"

Jesse choked on her mucus, sobs wracking her body. "De-De-Derek! Derek, please! That wasn't – wasn't me! I haven't done anything! I haven't done anything! Derek, I love you! I love you, Derek, I love you!"

"**Shut up!**" he screamed. "**Shut your god damn mouth!**"

"Please! Please! I'll – " She choked again. Her face was soaked, eyes rimmed red. "I'll leave John alone! I'll let – I'll let him and the metal – I'll just leave, Derek! Derek, please! I'll just leave and – "

Rage and frustration darkened his eyes. Derek erased the gap between them, pressing the silencer to her forehead. It only made her sob harder. He drew the gun back and pistol-whipped her, knocking her to the mattress, where she bounced off and hit the floor.

She lay in a heap on her side. He stood over her, gun pointed at her temple. He had no choice, he told himself. He had to save his brother's soul, and to satisfy his vengeance.

Derek took a breath and squeezed the trigger.

A stiff kick to his knee threw his aim off, sending the bullet through the headboard of the bed and into the plaster behind it. Before he could register what happened, Jesse was on her feet with his wrist in her hand, trying to knock the gun loose.

Two more shots blasted the far wall.

Jesse belted him in the face with her fist, cracking every bone in her hand, but knocking him to the ground. He scrambled for the gun, while she made a break for the adjoining room. A bullet whizzed past her ear, ruffling her hair as she dove to the ground.

Derek was already up again, rushing after her, as Jesse crawled furiously toward the middle of the living room. There was a fully-loaded Desert Eagle taped to the underside of the coffee table. It was her last chance.

Jesse reached the table, clawing until her nails bled for the gun. She finally pried it loose, spinning effortlessly onto her back and aiming up at Derek.

The hiss of two silenced bullets filled the air, as pain exploded through Jesse's chest.

Her finger relaxed on the trigger, until her arm finally dropped and the gun slipped from her grasp. She lay back, gasping for air as blood sputtered from her mouth. She raised a clumsy hand to her wounds, but desisted upon realizing their severity.

Jesse peered up into Derek's pained eyes. The eyes she remembered. The eyes she loved. The eyes that had promised no harm would come to her. A liar's eyes.

_Oh, how I love ya pretty baby  
>You're the only love I've ever known<br>As long as you stay with me  
>the whole world is my throne<em>

Derek knelt down beside her, lifting a hand to caress her cheek, smearing her fluids all across his palm. She gargled blood and vomited, her white blouse now cherry. What little was left of Derek's soul was torn asunder by the sight.

He stroked her hair. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay. Just rest now. It's going to be okay. I promise. Just close your eyes."

_Beyond here lies nothin'  
>nothin' we could call our own<em>

She stared up at him defiantly, sparing him none of her fear or anger or hatred or regret. Let this be my legacy. Let my life continue in his every tortured dream.

_I'm movin' after midnight  
>down boulevards of broken cars<em>

Little Kyle ambled forward. Burned-out Chevrolets and Fords lined both sides of the street, the smell of charred plasma lingering in the air. Torrents of black ash drifted in the sky, sealing him off from the infinite universe and the wonder that it held. The earth was a mausoleum, its chambers the cities and nations that held the billions dead.

Kyle's eyes were rimmed red, with black smudges beneath the outlines. He'd done all his crying. He'd nothing left to feel. He was like the cars all around him: a frame with no guts, no identifying features, no reason left to be what it was.

A mangled body lay in pieces just ahead of him. Most of the scalp had been gnawed off by a scavenger. A turtle lay atop his chest, pecking lazily at his face.

Connor. John Connor. The reason for all of this. The plasma that snuffed out his brother's light. No man who could inspire such psychosis as the kind that filled the murderess could be the messiah Thomas had described. His family was dead. Everyone was dead, and Connor would pay the bill.

The sharp whine of an HK snapped through the sky like thunder. Kyle stopped where he was and peered up above. The monstrous craft burst through the black clouds, and for a moment – just one instant – Kyle saw the heavens.

The turtle ate the skin from the dead man's eyes, so they lay open to the stars.

_Don't know what to do without it  
>without this love that we call ours<em>

Ellison watched Sarah's eyes roam over the prisoner, searching for some sign of she and John's savior. But there was nothing. Kyle's mouth was a tight line, hands white-knuckled over the arms of the chair.

When she could take no more, Sarah glanced down. She thought maybe, all these years, she'd been lying to John. Perhaps hate was truly stronger than love. Perhaps hate was the stuff of gods, and he who ruled it ruled creation.

Sarah blinked back her weakness.

_Beyond here lies nothin'  
>nothin' but the moon and stars<em>

Little Kyle met the blank gaze of the T-800. It knelt in front of him on the dark street, head tilted in curiosity. If not for the vacant eyes, and its emergence from the HK, Kyle might have thought it was human. No more rubber skin. This one was living tissue. It took the form of a man in his late twenties: attractive, waspish, with dark brown hair like Derek's.

"What is your name?" it monotoned.

It surprised the boy to realize he felt no fear. He felt no anger. He had no urge to scream or run, to weep. He simply held its gaze and answered, "My name is Kyle Reese."

_Down every street there's a window  
>and every window made of glass<br>We'll keep on lovin' pretty baby  
>for as long as love will last<em>

Cameron lay on her back, John overtop her. His warm breath on her neck made her close her eyes. He stared at her lips – soft, pink, slightly pouting and shimmering with a subtle gloss. They parted slightly in anticipation. Her head tilted back to allow him access.

John skimmed her lips for an instant, but pulled back before she could react. She let out a frustrated noise that he felt guilty for enjoying. He moved his mouth to her ear, blowing on it softly. She jerked feebly beneath him.

"Something wrong?" he whispered smugly.

Cameron grasped his t-shirt in a loose fist, her pout deepening. Her voice sounded uncertain, concerned. "Please desist this, John Connor."

"Desist what?" he asked innocently.

"Withholding your affections when you know I desire them," she said in a throaty voice. "It is impolite."

John grinned widely. "Sorry," he murmured, lifting a hand to push her hair out of her face. She tilted her head again. This time, he lowered his mouth onto hers, feeling a rush of heat through him when she whimpered.

The kiss deepened almost instantly. Cameron slid her tongue along his bottom lip, then forced it into his open mouth, her hands sliding up his sides, before wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him down so that he was flush against her.

Riley stared disbelievingly through the living room window.

_Beyond here lies nothin'  
>but the mountains of the past<em>

Little Kyle followed the T-800 down the corridor in the Skynet Command Center. Each dull inch resembled the last, and the endless stretch of dark gray metal was interrupted only by light fixtures, communications consoles, and locked doors that led to unknown places.

Another T-800, this one a woman, smiled artificially as she passed them. He didn't know why, but he smiled back.

_My ship is in the harbor  
>and the sails are spread<br>Listen to me pretty baby  
>Lay your hand upon my head<em>

Jesse's body began to spasm. She was choking on her blood. A fulcrum of hand held her head off the ground. Still, in these final moments, caught in the gravity of the gaping maw of darkness, she stared into his eyes.

We all die for John Connor.

_Beyond here lies nothin'  
>nothin' done and nothin' said<em>


	4. Have You Ever Seen the Rain? Part 1

**A/N:** Many thanks to everyone for their feedback, as always. It's very much appreciated. Here is the latest chapter. This begins the second episode of the story. Let me know how it turned out.

Many thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Have You Ever Seen the Rain? (Part 1)<p>

* * *

><p>Derek was covered in blood.<p>

He couldn't go outside like this. It was an invitation to arrest, and he'd no time for setbacks; they had to take Janus out tonight. Derek surmised that Kyle had the day off, since Ellison had abducted him at home. Nobody would miss Kyle today, but if he didn't show up tomorrow, Gasol would come looking.

Derek rifled through Jesse's dresser for a clean shirt and pants. He tossed her clothes around carelessly until he found some of his own.

He took a shower, trembling as the water washed away his violence.

He knew he'd done the right thing, that Jesse was too dangerous. Her unebbing hatred had destroyed his brother's soul. Kyle had been traumatized and left to Skynet's devices at a formative age. How could he blame a nine year-old boy for being brainwashed?

Derek considered the fragility of the human mind. It can be rewritten, reprogrammed the same as a machine's. He cursed Cameron for a volatile psychology he'd now observed in his own brother.

For weeks, he'd been telling John to get his head in the game. But maybe it had been all along. In the future, they followed John because he saw things no one else did; he made decisions no one else could. This morning, he'd seen a flash of Future John. His nephew had made it clear that Cameron was to live, and that any contrary action would result in Derek's death. He believed him.

Derek would always loathe _it_, but when he stripped away his hate and considered things objectively, he knew it served a purpose. He knew that, barring some reversion to its old programming, Cameron would tear down planets to keep its charge safe.

Derek finished his shower and got dressed. He brushed his teeth with Jesse's toothbrush, then trimmed his beard to two days growth. He stared at himself in the mirror. He tried to look into his soul. But he couldn't. He'd already snipped the connections between it and his eyes. He wasn't capable of John's introspection.

With a quick check of his watch, Derek returned to the living room, sideling past Jesse's corpse. Quietly and patiently, he tore the room apart. He looked through all the desk drawers and shelves and under all the tables, searching for some sign of what she may have been planning. But there was nothing incriminating beyond photos of John and Cameron.

Derek squatted by Jesse's body. He flipped her onto her back and straddled her stomach, then searched her pockets. Her cell phone was in one pant pocket, her wallet in the other. The wallet had 75 dollars, a California driver's license under the name "Chelsea Madison," and a key to a safe deposit box. He took the money and the key and left the wallet.

He cycled through the call log on the phone. There were only two numbers: his and one he didn't recognize. He deleted every trace of his own number, then pocketed the phone.

Derek took one last look around. In a way, this was home. He'd found comfort here, where there'd been none in the Connor house. But death had come now, as it does to all places.

With a numb glance at Jesse, Derek exited the apartment. He walked calmly to the parking lot and got in his car.

As the building faded in the rear-view mirror, he realized things had changed. There were some things to be decided, and some things to make right. He knew where he had to start.

He drove exactly forty miles per hour (the speed limit) toward the only home he had left. His eyes were on the road, and he reacted appropriately to traffic, but the part of the brain where people do their real thinking was occupied by other things.

There's a Judgment Day we have in common, and one that's only ours. Derek had seen death on a great scale, but the events of today were personal. His heart was full of burning garbage.

He slowed to a stop at a red light, laying his head back against the seat. He closed his eyes. Through the years, he'd learned to sleep soundly, and he'd gotten plenty last night. But he was still so god damn tired.

The warm sun caressed his face. His hands loosened on the steering wheel.

A shrill melody blared in his ears, and his eyes opened with a start.

Jesse's phone lay ringing on the passenger's seat. Derek stared at it. The display showed the same number he'd seen in her call logs. The phone inched to one side as it vibrated.

Derek waited another moment and then picked it up. He pressed "talk," and cradled it carefully against his ear.

He didn't speak. He didn't breathe.

* * *

><p>Riley waited. Her eyes roamed the café, assigning motives to passersby; she found codes in their harmless prattling. She held the phone to her ear, but no voice addressed her.<p>

Something was wrong. They say women possess a special intuition, but a tunnel rat's is better. She dared not speak. Her hand trembled slightly.

* * *

><p>Derek could hear voices in the background, but still no one spoke to him. Five seconds later, the call went dead. He checked the display to confirm it: "Call Ended  0 m 11 s."

He set the phone on the seat and stared at it. He slid his jaw from side to side.

* * *

><p><strong>Terminator:<strong>

**The Sarah Connor Chronicles**

* * *

><p>Riley's shaking hand dropped the phone into her messenger bag.<p>

It was time to go.

Whether something had happened to Jesse, or Riley had made her angry, it wasn't safe anymore.

She'd go home and pack some things. Just the bare essentials. Maybe she'd go to Mexico, or up north to Portland. She'd met a man once who spoke well of Portland. She'd steal a car and drive through the night.

Riley proceeded to the exit, knocking several people off-course along the way. When she got outside, she made a beeline for her bike, unchaining and mounting it. She pedaled furiously to build up speed, then coasted down the sloping street.

As she rode, she thought of John. She thought about his kindness and about his flashes of anger. She thought about the one time she'd kissed him – how unnatural it felt, how disinterested he was. She'd wanted to give him everything – not on account of love, as she felt nothing for him, but because it would have made her life _matter_.

Instead, he'd chosen the machine. He'd bestowed love upon an object. He might as well have kissed a car or an oven or a baseball, for they possessed as much feeling. She pitied him for his affections.

But none of that mattered now. Leave John and _it_ to their deplorable union. Let everything burn around them, and let machines control the embers.

Riley smiled. It felt good to let it go.

* * *

><p>Derek stopped at his storage unit to gather a few things.<p>

He threw open the gray lockers, grabbing several blocks of plastique, ten pre-loaded clips for his and Sarah's Glocks, and a Heckler & Koch MP5A3. He smiled upon taking the sub-machine gun into his hands. He had fond memories of mowing down T-600s with that one.

When everything was loaded in the car, he completed his journey to the Baum residence.

He entered through the front door, taking care with his footfalls to announce his arrival. John and Cameron sat side by side on the couch, craning their necks to look at him as he entered the living room.

John steeled himself for the inevitable. He was tired of, but accustomed to having to defend Cameron, and he expected Derek's outlook was even darker after this morning.

His uncle took in his tense posture, sighing. The kid had his dad's affinity for pointless causes. "Hi, John."

There was none of the usual rebuke in his voice. He sounded almost contrite, which John found more unsettling.

"Hey."

Derek gestured toward the kitchen. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

John's eyes narrowed. "Derek, I'm really not in the mood to – "

"I'm not here to give you shit, John." At his nephew's expression, he added, "I promise: no speeches. I just need to talk to you."

John glanced at Cameron. Her eyes were fixed on Derek, her face a blank slate. When she didn't acknowledge him, John patted her knee and stood, following Derek into the kitchen and out of Cameron's sight.

Crossing his arms defensively, John leaned against the counter. But it wasn't the comportment of an affronted teenager, as Derek had always perceived it. This was the seed of strong will from which Future John would grow.

Derek lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. He wasn't sure where to start.

"All right, I'm here. So what is it?" John asked impatiently.

Derek sighed. "Look, John, I'm not gonna hassle you. There's not a lot you can to say to a guy who's already threatened to kill you." He thought he saw John wince, but he may have imagined it. "You know how I feel about that thing. I think it's a hunk of garbage that belongs in a compactor."

John scowled. "Is this what you call 'not hassling?' Because I'm about to punch you in the mouth."

"Look, that's – forget it; that's not the point," Derek said, shaking his head irritably. "I'm trying to – I understand – I hate that fucking thing as much as I hate anything, but I know how you feel about it."

"_Her_, Derek. There's no _it_."

"John, in a million years, that metal killer would never be a _her_ to me. You're not gonna change my mind about that, anymore than I'll change yours. So you're gonna to have to deal with it. And I'll have to deal with you treating it like a Disney princess."

"Derek, what the hell are you trying to say?" John demanded.

"I'm saying, as much as I wanna burn that thing, I'm not going to. I wish you'd wise your ass up, but I can't make you. You wanna play boyfriend to a bunch of preprogrammed commands, then go ahead. I'll leave you alone, and I'll leave _it_ alone."

John glanced down, then back at his uncle. "Why does that sound like bullshit to me?"

"Because your mom trained you to be paranoid."

John smirked slightly. It was difficult to accept the concession's sincerity, but Derek was a straight shooter. He had no need for Sarah's fictions.

"All right," John said. "But I'll still break your fucking nose if you say one wrong word to her."

A sardonic grin tugged at Derek's lips. "It's been broken before. By guys a lot tougher than you, kid."

John didn't blink. "Try it and we'll see."

There's a code among men, for reasons unknown to women, whereby fearlessness and gumption are admired and rewarded, no matter the manner in which they're expressed. With a small smirk, Derek took a step back to break the tension and reached into his pocket for Jesse's phone.

He held it out for his nephew to take. John noted a tiny splatter of blood on the bottom, but made no comment. He eyed Derek quizzically.

"I need you to trace a phone number," Derek said.

"Which one?"

"All the calls on there are to and from the same number."

John cycled through the phone's menus. "Is this connected to Skynet?"

"Maybe," Derek said. "Not sure yet. I want you to find out who they've been talking to, but don't do_ anything_, okay? Just… sit tight. I'll handle it myself tomorrow."

John scowled. "You want my help, you're gonna have to give me more than that, Derek," he said bitterly. "I'm done being sent to my room to read a good book while you all decide what I can and can't know. You don't trust me? Well, fuck you, Derek, because I don't have an ounce of faith in you or mom right now." He stood up to his full height and looked his uncle in the eye. "So, you either tell me what the hell is going on around here or you can figure this out yourself."

Derek stared at him for a long moment, mouth slightly open. He'd not been ready for that level of vitriol. Clearly his and Sarah's placation hadn't been as successful as they'd believed. He took a deep breath.

"John, I trust you," he assured him. "I do. And I promise I'll explain things. Just not right now. There's some stuff I gotta get squared away today. Tomorrow, I'll tell you everything."

John wanted to believe him, but this was straight out of the Sarah Connor playbook: say absolutely anything to get John out of the way, and then go back on your word; repeat as necessary.

This time was different, though. This time, John had leverage. If Derek wanted John's information, he'd have to pony up his own. With that in mind, John nodded.

Derek smiled in relief. "Thanks, John." A quick glance at his watch told him he'd been gone for three hours. "I've gotta get going. We won't be back until late tonight, so don't wait up for us."

John shrugged, already returning his attention to the phone. "Sure. Whatever."

With one last glance that went unacknowledged, Derek exited through the back door (probably to avoid seeing _it_ again).

John navigated to the call logs. Upon seeing the lone number listed, the blood drained from his face. His stomach fell. A theory he'd written off as conspiratorial nonsense two nights ago now enjoyed new credibility.

That's when he knew this would be a very bad day.

* * *

><p>"Tell us about Janus," Ellison said.<p>

Kyle grinned, gesturing to the security card on the table. "Seems like you know plenty. Not sure I can be much help."

"I know who you are. I know why you're here," Ellison said, utterly unperturbed. "But I need a few specifics. And you're going to give them to me."

"Is that right? Well, then, I won't keep you waiting. What is it you wanna know?"

"How far is the project from completion?"

Kyle glanced at Sarah, tilting his head like a machine, but raising a mocking eyebrow before returning his gaze to Ellison. "I don't think you'll be needing that retirement account, if that's what you're asking. Why don't you take a trip? I hear Venice was lovely before the bombs fell."

"I've already been," Ellison said easily. "I found it a bit humid."

Sarah's eyes flicked between them impatiently. Kyle's smugness threatened to release some danger dammed inside her.

The father of her child was now dedicated to its death. That dark desire was like napalm in Sarah's heart, burning up every trace of the love they'd once shared. An eerie serenity fell over her. This was not the Sarah that spared a burglar in a bowling alley.

She stalked over to her captive and, as he turned his head to look at her, back-handed him across the face. The smack reverberated through the warehouse. Blood trickled from Kyle's nose. He peered up at her stoically, clearly unfazed.

His earlier outbursts were a result of his emotion at seeing Derek. Now that his brother was gone, Kyle's comportment was an amalgam of machine-like indifference and human sociopathy. He was logical and cruel, a feral child of the new world order.

Sarah stretched her stinging fingers. "I'm not as patient as Mr. Ellison. I don't have time to banter. When I ask you a question, you're going to answer it. And every lie you tell me, I'll take it out on your face."

Kyle smirked. "Pain's a funny thing, Miss. You spend enough time with people who don't feel any, you stop feeling it yourself. It becomes a foreign concept. I haven't felt pain since Skynet freed me." He tilted his head again, a pernicious glee showing. "It's sad, really. I'm tied up – helpless. Yet you could beat on me all day and I wouldn't feel a thing. You, though? I don't have to touch you to hurt you."

Sarah gritted her teeth. She made a fist and socked him in the forehead. Kyle's head whipped back, but quickly corrected itself. He had a slightly dazed look, but appeared otherwise unaffected.

"Tell me about the security," she demanded. "How many men?"

"Can't remember."

Sarah's fist met his mouth, rocking him back again. He blinked, grunting. He ran his tongue over his gums to confirm they were bleeding.

"I suggest you answer her," Ellison said, "while you still have all your teeth."

"I think maybe I'll start on your fingers next," Sarah said darkly. "Have you ever had a compound fracture, Kyle? Man, those can hurt. Especially if someone stands there and yanks on the bone." She smiled viciously. "I met an old man in Mexico once. He was eighty-nine, if I remember. He rode with Pancho Villa in 1916. During the American invasion, he was captured and tortured by the 10th Cavalry.

"They crushed every bone in both his hands, but he couldn't tell them what he didn't know. When I met him, all his fingers were deformed and useless. His granddaughters had to feed him. He told me how he wished to God he'd known where Pancho Villa was, because he would have told them. He spent seventy years getting by on other people's charity." She leaned in close, speaking softly. "I'm wondering, Kyle: whose charity will you survive on? Will the terminators feed you? Will they open doors, make your bed?"

Kyle took a breath of stale air and regarded her blankly. Perhaps, the same way you can deaden a nerve ending, it's possible to disable the stations that carry one's emotions. In all his years interrogating the world's worst criminals, Ellison had never seen someone so easily manage his reactions.

"I'm afraid you've misjudged me," Kyle said, seeing the frustration in Sarah's countenance. "I'm not a mercenary, Miss. I'm not here to drink martinis and sleep in a Tempur-Pedic bed. I'm here because Skynet is the only chance for this world to be saved."

"And how is that?" Ellison asked.

"The human race is in decay. We destroy the world around us. That will never change, as long as we're allowed to continue on our course," Kyle explained, a professorial air about him. "When Adam ate from the Tree of Knowledge, he was cast east of Eden. When decadence gripped Sodom and Gomorrah, the Lord cleansed them with fire. But that's not enough now. Fire alone can't cleanse us. We can't fix this with a flood. God has chosen His latest instrument, and I'm here to ensure its use."

The dark cloak of rage dropped over Ellison. Sarah watched in a daze as the black man delivered a right hook and a left cross to Kyle's mouth, before winding back and hammering him in the nose with a straight punch.

Kyle's head lolled about, eyes half-closed. Ellison grabbed him by the hair and tilted his head back. "You are not an apostle," he growled.

Sarah flinched, as Ellison hit him yet again.

* * *

><p>Cameron watched her John pace through the kitchen, his boots squeaking softly each time he turned. He was hunched forward slightly, cupping the back of his neck. He appeared deeply unsettled.<p>

She thought back over what Derek Reese had said. Aside from his typical diatribe about her being a soulless killer, she couldn't imagine what would so upset John.

As she stood up from the couch, she saw his hand shake just slightly. It was too minute to be noticed, except by one knew him intimately. She had a sudden need to touch him.

When Cameron joined him in the kitchen, John ceased his movements, slipping the phone into his pocket.

"Hey," he said quickly. "I, uh – I hope you didn't listen to all that."

"You know I did."

John smiled slightly, leaning against the counter. "Yeah. I know."

"You are distressed by the mystery of Derek Reese's movements?"

"Yeah," he said, omitting his other burden. "I don't know what they're up to, but I'm sure it's something stupid."

"Their secrecy is imprudent, but it may be intended to keep you safe."

John sighed in frustration. "We're trying to stop the _end of the world_ here. What the hell does it matter if I'm 'safe?' I'm just some guy. I'm nobody. I'm not any more important than the other six billion."

"You are John Connor."

"Maybe I don't wanna be. And if I stop Skynet, I won't have to. I won't matter if none of this burns."

Cameron's eyes shone brightly. She stood so that their faces were less than a foot apart, and in a soft voice declared, "You shall always matter."

He held her gaze. The brown of her eyes were the shade and texture of gourmet chocolate, the kind you only eat if you're rich or it's your birthday. And there was so much life there. Creation is a game of accidents. The humans built Skynet and it stumbled upon a purpose; Skynet built Cameron and she followed suit; and now Cameron and John were themselves creators. The feeling reflected in each one's eyes was itself a living thing.

John kissed the small spot between her eyebrows, then slid through the space between her and the counter, moving to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I have to go trace this phone number," he replied, avoiding eye contact. "I'll just be a few minutes."

"Would you like my assistance?"

John gave her a strained smile. "Don't worry about it. Just relax for a little bit, okay?"

"I relax most effectively when hearing your voice or maintaining physical contact."

His heart clenched with guilt. He wondered if she realized how brave she was in saying such things. A human girl might have tucked those words away, never to be spoken. He didn't want to repay that honesty with a lie.

What was stopping him from telling her? He trusted her, didn't he?

He thought back over Cameron's clipped tone and dangerous glances over the previous weeks. The answer was obvious. John trusted her with _his_ life, but perhaps not someone else's.

She sensed his turmoil and, when he didn't resume walking, moved to stand beside him. Her hand rose to his arm, lightly grasping it. "Is something wrong, John?"

Her gentleness chipped at his resolve. How could he refuse this beautiful creature anything? If she wanted the stars, he'd rip them from the sky and fashion a necklace from them. He'd die for her. She'd try to stop him if that day came, but her superior strength would be useless against his will.

Cameron squeezed his arm. John sighed.

"I…" He glanced down. "I already know who the caller is."

She tilted her head. When he gave no sign of continuing, she tonelessly remarked, "You do not trust me with this information."

Her fingers slipped from his arm and rested at her side.

John walked back to the center of the kitchen. Cameron followed, studying him intently. "Look, I'm…" Desperation darkened his eyes. He needed her to understand. "Cameron, you're the _only _one I trust. With anything. My heart's been a dark fucking cellar for a long time, and you let the light in. I feel things for you a man's supposed to save for God." He grabbed her arm fiercely. "You're _everything_, okay? That feeling you have – that you're pointless without me…" He cupped her face in his hand. "You're everything, Cameron."

She stared back at him. He could see the thoughts behind her eyes. After a long moment, she said, "You do not wish me to terminate this individual."

"No, I don't."

"But you believe I will do so anyway."

John swallowed hard, letting his hand fall. "Cameron, there's nothing you could do to change the way I feel," he said, his eyes tired and sorrowful. "But the dead are in my dreams. They're standing on my shoulders."

For the second time in as many days, moisture blurred her vision. So much pain her dear John carried. It's a flaw in humans that they can't delete malicious code. She touched his face tenderly. "You must not blame yourself, John Connor. You are a beautiful human. We will bring peace and happiness to your dreams. The dead do not belong there."

John tried to look away, but Cameron took his chin in her hand and forced him to meet her gaze. His eyes were damp. Her hand slid down to stroke his neck. For a moment, it appeared he would unravel. But Cameron marveled in the next seconds at the control he exercised. His tears disappeared, leaving only the sadness.

He gave her a shaky smile, gently grasping her hand and pressing a kiss into the palm. She took a sharp breath at the sensation.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he told her. "I'll never hurt you. I'll never send you away. But I need you to promise me that killing's a last resort. We'll do it when we have to, but not when it's avoidable." He searched her eyes timidly. "Can you accept that?"

For a moment, her face was emptied of any feeling. She receded inside herself to give his query its due attention. Finally, she nodded, and her eyes were full of life again.

John was filled with relief. He let out a breath and kissed her forehead softly.

The truth followed easily.

* * *

><p>Derek could hear the familiar clop of fists-on-face.<p>

Hurrying through the door, he found Sarah flexing her hand, which was bruised and stained with blood. Ellison's knuckles were similarly marked.

"Hey!" Derek shouted. "I told you to get information, not beat his brains in!"

Sarah glanced at him just briefly, before turning her icy eyes on the prisoner. "This is how I get information."

Behind her, Kyle was only semi-conscious, eyes half-closed as his head bobbed from side to side. He'd paid the price for his testimony. Every now and again, he'd spouted off Skynet propaganda like a Hitler Youth instructor, but he'd not answered any of their questions, offering nothing about the project or the compound's security. He was a faithful servant.

Derek approached Sarah, growling, "What the hell good is he to us _dead_?"

"He's not dead," Ellison pointed out mildly. "Not that it matters. He won't talk."

"How the hell do you know that? Maybe he responds better when people aren't beating the shit out of him."

Kyle sucked in shallow, wheezing breaths, too disoriented to follow their conversation.

"You weren't here. You don't get a say in this," Sarah said coldly. "You don't like how I handle things, then don't disappear."

Derek huffed in frustration, looking away with a sharp shake of his head. Sometimes he wondered how she'd survived as long as she had. It was clear to him now that Future John's masterful strategizing wasn't derived from her training. She was reckless and irrational – more than the John of this day even.

Sarah watched as Derek strode over to the prisoner, gently tilting Kyle's head so that he could examine his face. Kyle's nose was broken in two places; his cheekbone was fractured; one eye was badly swollen. Derek's gaze traveled down to a broken hand and three dislocated fingers. They'd been after more than information. Their brutality had been cathartic.

Derek could understand that.

He returned to the car, opening the trunk and grabbing a jug of water and a loaf of bread. When he returned inside, he untied a half-conscious Kyle from the chair and slung him over his shoulder.

Derek carried his brother to a storage closet on the other end of the warehouse. He set Kyle down on the concrete, and dropped the water and the bread beside him. Then he padlocked the door from the outside.

He did these things without thought or feeling.

When he returned to Sarah and Ellison, his indignation was gone. Their stupidity was clear, but there was no use brooding about it. They all had a job to do.

Ellison glanced past him, then regarded Derek quizzically. "What are you doing?"

"I'm stopping us from wasting any more time," Derek said tersely. "He might have been good for something, but you and Laila Ali here beat him unconscious. He's a non-factor now; we'll deal with him later. Right now, we've got some things to figure out."

Sarah eyed him frostily, but reluctantly nodded. She turned to Ellison. "What were you able to pull together?"

"I have blueprints for the compound and a staff listing," Ellison said, "but no details on the security setup. We'll be going in blind in that regard."

Derek glanced between them, then briefly at the storage closet. What cruelty from God. What wicked humor. "It'll have to do."

* * *

><p>Riley packed light.<p>

Her foster parents were gone now. Her siblings were scared of her, so they wouldn't be any trouble. She could be out of there and on the road in twenty minutes.

She filled a duffle bag with three shirts, three pairs of pants, three bras, three pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks. She reached under the bed and dug out fifteen hundred-dollar bills held together by a rubber band.

Her eyes swept over the room a final time. She'd never return to this place. Soon, the knickknacks scattered about would be a hazy memory, no more or less real than dreams.

Riley hurried down the stairs as quietly as she could manage. Nothing stirred in the house. The kids must've been in the basement. When she got to the landing, she headed for the back door.

She slowly turned the knob, letting in the evening air and coming face to face with a stoic John Connor. She recoiled with a start.

"Hello, Riley," he said calmly, letting the Beretta show in his waistband. "Let's talk."

* * *

><p>"I told you: <em>I don't know what you're talking about<em>!" Riley cried, backing into the corner of the shipping container, her voice echoing off the dusty metal walls. "Please, John! You're scaring me!"

John shook his head without an ounce of compassion. "No, I don't think I'm scaring you. You still think you can play me. You don't believe I'll hurt you." He smirked, nodding his head at Cameron. "But you know she will, don't you? She's the one you're afraid of."

"Damn it, John! Stop it! What is wrong with you! I thought we were friends! I thought you – I thought – " Her face portrayed betrayal, crocodile tears pricking at her eyes. "Don't you – don't you care for me, John? I thought – I thought we could be together. Don't you want to be together?"

In his peripheral vision, he could see Cameron's hand twitching, clenching and then unclenching. Her face was cold and blank.

"Why would I want to be with someone whose entire life is a lie?" John asked, voice gravelly and low. "Don't insult me by pretending you care about me. All your coy come-ons, your cutesy little phrases – I don't wanna hear them. It's time for the truth. This is your Judgment Day, Riley. Right here, right now is your last chance to do the right thing. This is your final chance to save yourself." His bloodshot eyes seemed to glow. "If you don't take it, then God have mercy, because I won't."

Cameron studied Riley's face. Emotions flashed across it, but she couldn't decode them. One thing was certain, though: Riley didn't care for John. She hadn't fallen for him in the commission of her duties. Everything Riley did was logical and calculating, and done at John's expense. Anger welled in Cameron at his having suffered that deception.

John ran his fingertips over her twitching hand, then dragged them across the palm. The brief caress stilled its motion.

This was not lost on Riley.

"Is that what this is, John?" she asked mockingly. "You want me out of the way so you can get your sister into bed?"

"You will cease this line of inquiry and answer his questions," Cameron commanded. "All future attempts to damage John emotionally will be met with immediate reprisal."

Riley's fear was plain, but overpowered by her frustration. She was a wounded animal. "And what are you gonna do? Are you gonna hit me? I've been hit before. Are you gonna kill me? Then do it. It doesn't matter. Because no matter what you do, John will never love you. How could he? You're an emotional retard."

John stalked forward, grabbed her by the collar, and hurled her against the wall. She hit with a loud crash, the metal vibrating all around them. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling, then pinned her against the wall with his forearm

"I'm done playing games," he growled. "You will not talk to her that way. And you _will_ answer my questions." He moved his forearm to her throat, pressing down and impeding the path of air. Riley's eyes filled with terror. It was only a few moments before John drew back and allowed her oxygen, but the message had been delivered.

Cameron watched with her equivalent of awe. Some people were violent by nature, and for them such acts were easy. This was not the case with John. In the months and years to come, such displays would be necessary, but they would take their toll on him. They would feed his self-loathing. On those days, she would hold him and comfort him. She would remind him how pure and good he was. He would not be alone.

John stepped away as Riley massaged her throat and panted.

She looked on him fearfully as he reached into his pocket and came out with a cell phone. He held it up for her to see. "Tell me, Riley: who is 519-551-1111?"

Riley blanched. She trembled.


	5. Have You Ever Seen the Rain? Part 2

**A/N:** Hey there! It's been too long. Sorry that I've been keeping busy in real life instead of having fun writing!

I apologize for the long wait, and I hope you enjoy this latest installment. There's some parts I'm not happy with, and other parts that I am. So please leave a review and let me know what you think! And a cookie to whoever picks out the literary reference in this chapter. :)

**Warning:** There's one pretty disturbing image in this chapter. If you're squeamish, proceed with caution.

* * *

><p>Have You Ever Seen the Rain? (Part 2)<p>

* * *

><p>"John – "<p>

"_Who,_ Riley?" he demanded. When she ducked her head, he sighed angrily. "Look, there's two options here. You tell me who it is, or I finish what I started. Up to you."

Cameron watched her closely. The girl's shaking worsened. It wasn't theater; she was truly terrified.

"I…" Riley glanced at Cameron, then quickly away. Tears filled her eyes; her lower lip trembled. "John, you… you have to understand, I – I didn't ask for this. It wasn't my choice. I couldn't say no."

"Couldn't say no to who?" Cameron asked.

"I was nothing; I was eating garbage," Riley ranted. "She came and – and – and she took me away. She let me shower; I'd never showered before. She – "

"A _name_!" John barked.

"_Jesse_! Her name is _Jesse_, okay?" Cameron tilted her head, but Riley continued obliviously: "She saved my life, and all she asked was one favor. My life for a favor. All she wanted was one little thing and she'd take me to paradise."

She sounded so wistful that John felt a pang of sympathy. Riley was no more suited to this place than a machine.

"What year?" Cameron monotoned.

Riley shut her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks glistening in the light. It evoked John's more virtuous urges. He resisted them.

"2027," Riley whispered.

The clank of Cameron's boots echoed through the trailer. Riley's eyes snapped open.

There's an eeriness in a person's footfalls that belies reason. Perhaps it's because the sound's slight enough that it gives our brains room to think. So much of fear is derived from waiting.

"I'm not here to hurt him," Riley said meekly.

Cameron was an arm's length away. "You're lying."

"I'm here to _save_ him!"

"From what?"

Riley glowered, but her eyes had a sardonic quality. Only a child—and that's what terminators were—could be so ignorant.

She leaned in, as if to share a secret.

"From you."

* * *

><p>Derek shook his head, gesturing to a side entrance on the blueprint.<p>

"Has to be here," he said. "Back entrance is no good. We'd have to circle all the way around to get to the elevator; that's the only way down to the lab."

"The back entrance gives us options," Ellison rebutted. "Look at this…" He dragged his finger along a narrow corridor connecting to the side entrance. "That's thirty feet long. It's a shooting gallery if they spot us."

"I don't plan on being spotted."

Sarah crossed her arms. "Have either of you even thought about how we're going to get inside?"

"I figured you'd handle that part, since you're keeping John on the bench," Derek snapped.

There's a difference between relationships we choose and ones formed out of necessity. There was nothing to keep them from tearing each other's throats out but their need to prevent Judgment Day.

Sarah's mouth was a straight line. "John's where he needs to be."

Ellison leaned back against the table, watching passively. When Derek only blinked, he addressed Sarah: "My source was able to tell me one thing about security: entry to the building requires a retina scan."

She dipped her head back in frustration. "Any ideas on getting past it?"

Ellison said nothing. Sarah, brows knit together, studied the concrete.

Unlike them, there were no limits on Derek's thinking. He didn't operate under a set of arbitrary moral imperatives. His irises seemed big in the whites of his eyes when he raised his head.

"I know one way."

Sarah frowned momentarily, before tracking his gaze to the padlocked door across the warehouse. Her eyes narrowed. "You wanna bring _him_ with us?"

Derek's face was a cruel mask.

"No."

Ellison raised an eyebrow, and it was enough to spark recognition in Sarah. The color drained from her face; her stomach stirred with disgust.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

Derek watched her emotionlessly. "If you know a better way, I'm listening."

Sarah looked away. Her forehead creased in the middle.

Is this what they'd come to? It wasn't the barbarism, so much as the rationalization. It was the cold logic of a machine.

Sarah was tired. For seventeen years, she'd serviced two selves: the one before she met Kyle Reese, and the one she'd become. Since John was old enough to hear her, she'd been indoctrinating him with both half-remembered morals and an appetite for violence. The two stood then, as they did now, in contradiction. And she hated herself for that.

"An hour ago, you stormed in here like the Red Cross," Sarah said quietly. "Now you're gonna cut his eye out?"

Derek shook his head. "You misunderstood before. That's not my brother in there," he said coldly. "Only reason I gave a shit if he lived or died is because I wanted information." He looked at Ellison. "We're past that now."

Sarah turned away from them.

"We'll need some sterile tools," Ellison said easily. "And a cooler to keep it fresh."

His effortless voice drew Sarah's gaze again. She'd never seen someone look so placid. He showed neither anger nor doubt. His huge hands lay flat on his thighs.

"Is this God's work, Agent Ellison?"

He was sitting at an angle, so that the light from outside shone on only half his face. "'And thine eye shall not spare,'" he recited calmly. "'Life for life. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Hand for hand.'"

He flexed his fingers. The knuckles cracked.

* * *

><p>"You barely spoke with your commanders. Everything came from her."<p>

John glanced at Cameron.

"It is true," she said. "You often used me to relay your orders."

"Why?"

"Because _she_ was running things, not you," Riley posited. "I guess the sex was pretty good. Had to be to turn John Connor into a puppet."

Cameron's eyes were like oil. She moved menacingly forward. "You are lying. I had no sexual relationship with John Connor."

Riley's anger emboldened her. "You're a terminator. They built you to infiltrate. And you did that perfectly, didn't you?" she spat. "You got all the way to the top, and then you used that little body to seal the deal."

Cameron's hand twitched uncontrollably. Riley was hurting John. Her untruths would damage him emotionally and replace his affection for Cameron with distrust and betrayal.

The machine bent down, eyeing Riley's throat. It would be so easy. No more toying with John's emotions; no more conspiring to do him harm. Let the flame flicker out.

"Cameron!" John's voice blasted through her reverie. She looked briefly at her spasming hand, inches from Riley's neck, and then at the girl's terrified face, before whipping around to look at John.

She met those kind, soulful, imploring eyes.

"Don't, sweetheart," he pleaded softly.

Riley watched Cameron's fervor dissipate, replaced by a serenity more human than machine.

Cameron slowly retreated, moving to stand at John's side again.

He looked on Riley contemptuously. "I'm not interested in the future. It doesn't exist anymore. Wherever you came from is dead and gone," he said. "I want you to tell me about the present. Tell me about your plan for Cameron. How were you going to get her out of the way?"

Riley fussed with loose threads on her pants, considering explanations of varying veracity. Cameron stood with a portrait's appearance of seeing everything. And it was that eerie quality that provoked the truth.

"It was hardly thought out," Riley explained distantly. "All she did was put me in school—said I had to figure out the rest. You think I had any clue what I was doing? This was a vague idea operating under the illusion of a master plan."

"Then give me the vague idea," John demanded.

"I was supposed to become your friend. I was supposed to…"

"Supposed to what?"

Riley pushed some hair out of her face; it was sticky with sweat. She pictured John—a year younger with shaggy hair—standing across a schoolyard, punctuated by her own self-loathing sigh.

"I was supposed to make you love me."

John eyed her stonily. He felt a sudden need to hurt her. "Well, if that was your plan, it couldn't have gone any worse," he said flatly.

Riley flinched. And she could have sworn Cameron showed pleasure at it. If the cyborg had been human, Riley would have clawed the bitch's eyes out.

"Jesse told me that if I made you love me, you'd stop messing around with this – " Her eyes glittered darkly. "– tractor with tits."

When John replied to her and she only continued to stare at Cameron, he stepped between them and snapped his fingers in her face. "Hey! Answer me! Are you telling me you were never going to kill her? Do you think I believe that? You don't travel through time just to _distract_ someone."

Riley shrugged. "It's the truth. Truth doesn't always make sense, I guess."

Cameron stepped to one side of John to restore her line of sight. "What about Derek Reese?"

John frowned. "What about him?"

"In the future, Derek Reese and Jesse Flores engage in an intimate relationship," she explained. "She is pregnant with his child before suffering a miscarriage."

John closed his eyes.

Was there no end to the deceptions, or no beginning to the truth? The only living creature he could trust was a machine designed to kill him. His own kin manipulated him to further their agendas.

He thought back to his conversation with Derek, and to the blood on Jesse's phone. That son of a bitch was up to his ears in this.

* * *

><p>Derek was still adjusting to the idea that you paid for what you took. He'd been in this store once before—in 2018, or thereabouts. He'd looted it for bandages and ibuprofen.<p>

Here in the present, he marveled at the shelves—upright and filled— and at the old woman comparing drug labels. He wished he could tell her how blessed she was to have the choice.

Derek filled his cart with: bandages; rubbing alcohol; peroxide; antibiotic cream; scissors; needle and thread; an X-Acto knife; paper towels; a dish towel; chloroform; zip-lock bags; duct tape; an eye-dropper; a turkey baster; pickle salt; purified water; a bag of ice; and a cooler.

The check-out girl watched him out of the corner of her eye as she rang him up. He pretended to be oblivious; he was neither cheerful nor rude.

After he paid, she asked if he needed help with his bags. He didn't answer her—just walked off. He was careful to keep his head down as he passed the security cameras.

When he got out to the car, Ellison was loading it with gear from the army surplus store. They didn't say anything; they didn't look at each other.

They got in the car.

* * *

><p>Sarah sat, hands clasped in her lap, in a metal chair facing the padlocked door. The air was empty but for the soft sound of his stirring.<p>

They'd only spent two nights together. The first was cold and dark; the second had a kind of magic. And it hadn't faded through the years, as magic is prone to do.

But this isn't _him_, she told herself. _He_ is a pile of bones.

She thought about his grave. Would it help her to see it? Would it satisfy her tired mind? Or are we just too primitive to pull fact apart from feeling?

Whoever he was, he'd suffer soon. She consoled herself by imagining the tragedies that resulted from his betrayal. She pictured all the compounds the machines would have infiltrated with Kyle's help. She imagined little girls and boys lying dead on the ground, guts scattered everywhere.

There was no moral crisis here. Kyle Reese, son of the machines, deserved his fate.

Sarah thought about John. He wouldn't understand any of this; he was too naïve. He had all the tools to save the human race—the intelligence, the toughness, the weapons and hand-to-hand training—but he was too weak to use them.

The distant sound of metal scraping concrete pulled her out of her thoughts.

She stood up, not drawing her gun, but switching the safety off. She walked slowly toward the small door separating her and Kyle.

When she found the lock still latched, Sarah stood quietly. It sounded like he was handling a metal chain. She pictured him winding it around his one good fist and sliding behind the door. And she could almost see him tilting his head as he guessed at what she was doing

Sarah whipped around as the main door to the warehouse squealed open. The fading sun forced itself through the crack, then all the way in, before Derek and Ellison entered with their supplies.

Sarah joined them at the table, where Derek emptied the bags one item at a time. She flinched when she saw how they all fit together.

"We should do it soon," Derek remarked, unsealing the packages. "While he's still weak."

She glanced back at the storage room. "He's up. Heard him fussing with something."

"He won't be fussing in a minute."

Sarah eyed the chloroform. "Will that keep him out?"

"Hell if I know," he said indifferently. "Won't matter. We'll have him tied down if he wakes up."

Ellison watched her pallor change. He blinked his eyes tiredly, seeing some of himself in her. "He won't wake up."

Derek laid out his tools in neat rows. He cut up the bandage rolls into small squares. Then he started on the homebrewed saline solution. He appeared neither angry nor reticent; he had a surgeon's stern exactness.

Sarah wondered what John would think.

* * *

><p>"Where does Derek fit into all of this?"<p>

Riley seemed genuinely puzzled. "Your uncle? How should I know? I've never said two words to him."

"Bullshit. You trying to tell me he wasn't in on your plan for Cameron? They were _lovers_."

"Look, if he was in on it, she never told _me_! I didn't even know they knew each other."

John sighed. He shook his head. His voice neither rose nor fell, always continuing on the same low note. "I'm tired, Riley," he said. "Damn tired—living lies, having them told to me. And I look in your eyes and there's nothing to hold onto. There's nothing in your being that deserves my belief."

She glanced down, thinking not for the first time how some people are wired wrong. And she knew now that she was one of them. She blinked back tears.

Cameron tilted her head thoughtfully. "She is telling the truth."

"How do you know?"

"Woman's intuition," she monotoned.

John smirked. She'd been watching more television than he thought. It was frightening to think she was cobbling together her womanly sensibilities from such garbage.

He turned and scratched his head, walking the full length of the trailer before turning back. He wondered when Future John got to be so smart, because right now the well was dry. He watched the tunnel rat tremble.

"What am I supposed to do with you, Riley?" he asked quietly. She didn't say anything—didn't look up. "It's too dangerous to let you go. You know that, right?"

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Cameron's eyes held no emotion. "She's a threat, John."

"I know."

"She needs to be eliminated."

"Just cool it, okay? Let me think."

"Future John would – "

"Future John's not here!" he growled, slamming his palm against the wall, sending vibrations through the whole trailer. He pointed angrily toward the world outside. "Future John doesn't exist! He's not out there!"

He took a shuddering breath, a dull throb running up his arm. The pain seemed to trigger something. His shoulders fell slightly. He looked away and rubbed his eyes.

"He's not out there," he repeated softly. "It's just me. And I need time to think."

Cameron's cold eyes flickered. His face were so taut, she could actually hear the skin stretch.

After long moment, she finally nodded.

* * *

><p>Kyle heard the padlock drop to the floor. He coiled his fist, full of chain, back even with his ear. He stood waiting to strike when the door slammed open, pounding his head into the wall.<p>

He saw sharp flashes of light as he slid down to the floor. His hand unclenched and the chain dropped off. He'd hardly registered what happened when he was pulled up by his collar, stumbling until his assailant steadied him.

Derek's face came into focus.

Kyle admired his brother's lack of emotion as he dragged him out of the room by the arm. Derek's demeanor was that of a terminator. He wasn't motivated by vengeance or cruelty; he was driven by directives—like a good soldier should be, whether human or machine.

"There's still hope for you, Derek," Kyle mumbled. "You can still be saved."

"I'll pass."

This was it. This was Derek's last chance. Whatever he was about to do would drive him beyond Skynet's salvation. He had to act now, or his only family would be lost. Kyle thought back to childhood—the only part of their lives that would be the same in both timelines.

He spit out some of the blood left over from Sarah's torture. "Do you remember that time… when I was eight," he said raspingly, "and we tried to make napalm in the backyard… with some gasoline… in your old sneakers?"

Derek tugged his arm harsher than he needed to, drawing a gasp.

Kyle continued dauntlessly. "Neighbors… called the fire department. You made me… run inside… and… you told mom and everyone… that you'd set it yourself—that I'd told you not to do it… when it was my idea to begin with."

"I remember."

Kyle's head bobbed to one side, and he could see Sarah and Ellison waiting beside the table, which was filled with sharp instruments and cheap first aid items. In his concussed state, he saw two of everything.

"You knew how much trouble you were going to get in," he rasped urgently, "but you – you didn't care. You just… wanted to protect me." He grunted as Derek forced him down onto the chair. Sarah yanked his hands behind his back and secured him—first with zip-ties, then rope. "It's my turn to protect you, Derek. You have to go. Go far away and think. Think about… the kind of world we could have without… all this anger and hate—the kind of hate… that makes little boys start fires… just because they can."

"Will one of you shut him up?" Ellison asked dryly.

Sarah took a rag and doused it in chloroform. Kyle turned sharply to stare into Derek's eyes.

"I love you, brother," he said in a papery whisper. "And Skynet loves you too."

Sarah smothered his nose and mouth. Derek turned away, but heard none of the muffled cries of a human. There was truly no fear in this man; he accepted sleep like a switch had shut him off.

When he turned back, Kyle was limp, head lulling against his chest.

Derek glanced at Sarah, breathed steadily, his gaze drifting down her body until it fell on the knife. Sarah examined it too.

Slowly, their eyes tracked back to each other. They didn't say anything, but neither one of them had ever felt so naked.

Sarah's breath was a little ragged. Derek's wasn't, and he knew that that mattered. After a long pause, he walked to the table to pick up the knife.

But as he reached his hand down, Ellison's slid in and took it. Derek turned to the black man with a furrowed brow.

Ellison turned the knife over in his hand, thinking how inadequate it was—how gruesome this would be. He met Derek's eyes. "He's not my kin," he said softly.

Sarah looked down.

Derek glanced at Kyle, beaten and helpless, before nodding curtly.

* * *

><p>They took the 10 out east toward Bloomington. People didn't ask questions there; they were accustomed to travelers and drifters—and they didn't care to sort out which was which.<p>

This madness would end in Bloomington. From that point on, whatever happened happened.

Cameron sat in back to keep an eye on things. Riley looked out the window like a parrot might a cage. She played with her split ends and bounced her foot on the floor. John just drove, looking grim, but comfortable. That was his resting face where Cameron came from.

At one point, Riley looked at him meekly and said, "It doesn't have to happen this way. There's things I could do for you. I'm smart—you know I am."

John nodded, but didn't look at her, seeming mesmerized by the debris kicking up at the car's underbelly. The dull thrum from pebbles and junk had become a sort of lullaby during all those road trips with his mom. Even now, it hadn't lost its power.

He still didn't look at her.

"I know."

* * *

><p>Riley didn't object when they pulled over to the side of a dusty desert road, or when John yanked her out of the car by the arm and shoved her back a few feet.<p>

Most people picture loved ones, or perfect moments. Riley had none of those. The closest she got to happiness was filling an empty stomach with a half-cooked rodent. That was the reality—the meaninglessness—of her existence. She had accomplished nothing on earth but the discovery of suffering.

Riley didn't believe in God. What father would design such a world for his children? And what creator would let his design be edited through time travel? There was no point to any of this; it simply _was_. And somehow that brought her comfort.

She turned to look at John. He stood beside the car, watching her intently. The gun was visible in his waistband, but his hands dangled at his sides. Cameron stood rigidly behind him.

Riley took stock of everything with a far-off expression. It was that strange mix of wonder and boredom, as when a child views a museum exhibit. She was no longer a participant in, but now an observer of, her own history. It was liberating.

"Just so you know, John—in case you wonder later—I don't blame you. I understand," she said. "I didn't before, even ten minutes ago, but I get it now. I gave you no choice with what I did."

John wiped his face dry with his sleeve.

She did look at peace. It's funny what death's realization does, how lucid and unpanicked it can make even the most frantic person. And while one may find Jesus, and another Nothing, both are transformed.

He smiled grimly, remembering something from a book.

"You might've been a good woman," John said, "if there'd been someone to shoot you every moment of your life."

He reached behind his waist.

Riley watched in a daze.

* * *

><p>Kyle burst through the wall between sleep and awake.<p>

His entire face exploded with pain, and he caught sidelong with his good eye the peril of the other one. Ellison had freed it from its socket and was sawing at the retina.

Kyle howled like a beast, straining against his bindings. His teeth gnashed through his tongue until blood spurted out. His head jerked forward and he bit the air in front of Ellison.

"Connor!"

Suddenly Sarah was in front of him, stuffing a rag in his face. He worked at it with his teeth, until his head felt heavy again.

His mouth hung open, the blood dribbling like a waterfall over his bottom lip.

And then Sarah faded, and the pain faded, and he reentered sleep's miasma.

* * *

><p>Riley shut her eyes.<p>

She wondered for the first time why John hadn't asked where he could find Jesse. That was the logical thing to do. He asked everything else about her—why not where she was?

Whatever his reason, it didn't matter. Jesse was on her own, and Riley's time was done. The world around her faded, and she waited for death's miasma.

She felt a splash of dust on her legs, flinching but not moving. A hot breeze tousled her sweaty hair. She pictured herself as an hour glass draining its last grains of sand. Almost. Almost.

"Pick it up."

Riley's eyes snapped open.

John gestured emotionlessly to a wad of cash sitting at her feet. At Riley's quizzical expression, he continued, "Should be enough to get where you're going. Wherever that is. I guess that's up to you."

The veil of death lifted off her, leaving Riley trembling. She glanced over her shoulder at the modest spires of Bloomington in the distance.

Her peace was gone. She felt diminished for John's mercy.

"I don't…" She shook her head sadly. "I don't understand."

"No. I don't imagine you do."

"I'm a threat to you. I know about you."

John glanced at Cameron, who was staring at Riley. It took every byte of acquired discipline for her not to waste the tunnel rat right there.

"There's a lot of people that are threats to me," he said. "And I could kill all of them, I guess. But if I don't have to, I'd just as well not."

Riley dipped her head to look at the money again. There was about three thousand dollars there, as best she could tell. She bent down to pick up, barely getting her hands up when John hurled her duffle bag at her. She more blocked it than caught it.

Riley opened it to make sure all her stuff was there, and to deposit her new wad of cash.

"I don't expect I'll be seeing you again," John said.

Cameron's hand twitched at her side. She bore a great pain for her charge. To have suspected Riley, been proven correct, and then forced to let her go was almost too much. But she owed him her trust.

When John walked back to the car, his protector followed.

"John!" He turned back at Riley's voice. "Why didn't you ask where she was? You must've wanted to know."

He waited a beat, considering things, before he dug the cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to her. As he and Cameron climbed into the car, Riley examined it. It didn't take her long to find the blood.

She stood rooted in her spot, staring at the phone as John started the car up, made a u-turn, and left her all alone. The hot breeze blew past her, as if urging her to turn around.

Riley looked down the dusty road to Bloomington.

"_You might've been a good woman. If there'd been someone to shoot you every moment of your life."_


End file.
